Zoo Biology 17:5153 (1998)

EDITORIAL

Coming In Out of the Cold: Animal Keeping

in Temperate Zone Zoos
As spring comes to North America, exhibits that have been under ice and snow
for weeks if not months again become habitable by warmth-loving denizens of more
tropical climes. Ever since zoos in Europe and North America first opened their doors,
a sojourn within the confines of houses for several months each year has been an
accepted part of the keeping of captive exotics. One of the more common bits of knowledge to emerge from these experiences is that some species have a wider range of
tolerance for temperature variation than they would normally encounter in their natural
habitats. Thus, for example, a televised story shows a herd of elephants in a Canadian
zoo breaking pond ice in winter in order to obtain a drink of water. And, if gradually
acclimated, gorillas in a Netherlands zoo reportedly are comfortable outdoors on days
when temperatures fall to as low as 50F, with about 75% humidity. Other species of
tropical origin are seen frolicking in new fallen snow, seemingly oblivious to the unnaturalness of the experience for them. The question is, perhaps, not that these animals
survive under such circumstances, but rather, how well.
In the nearly 10 years that I have been editor of this journal, I have received
only one paper dealing directly with the thermal environment of animals held captive by zoos. The scientists in this instance used sensors to measure reflected heat off
the bodies of sea lions, as well as off enclosure features such as gunite walls (see
Langman et al., Zoo Biology 15:403411, 1996). Their concern was with heat rather
than cold. Even so, the implications of captive confinement for thermal comfort and
related sequelae such as reproductive output are clearly shown by their study to extend to a wide range of design features and management practices. Confounding the
situation for zoos are the different econiches, metabolisms, and regulatory mechanisms found within and between the major vertebrate divisions. My remarks pertain,
however, to thermal well-being more generally, in hopes of bringing common sense
to bear more directly on some of our everyday management practices across diverse
taxa and, ultimately, to inspire the research that will bring forth the hard data needed
to demonstrate the perils of slighting thermal parameters.
In my monthly thumbing through the new exhibits section of Communiqu (the
American Zoo and Aquarium Associations newsletter), I have been struck by two
facts. The first is that the design and constructive of exhibits are very big business,
indeed. Ads tout the builders claims that Mother Nature is flattered by our natural
design abilities and filtration at its finest, and a quick tally of dollars spent from
the announcements of newly completed facilities shows a range in cost from the tens
of thousands to an upper limit of about 1012 million.
1998 Wiley-Liss, Inc.

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Lindburg

My second observation is that in zoo-land, it is always summer. Despite the

fact that the majority of our institutions are located in the north temperate zone
and often deal with winter conditions better suited to polar bears than to chimpanzees, photos accompanying these announcements are invariably taken between
May and August. So, what is going on the rest of the year? Seemingly, the provision of naturalistic experiences for the animals are, in many cases, as seasonal as
the visitors, and with important consequences for those that are as adverse to
cold weather as we are.
Not having any experience with exhibits under a foot or two of snow, I cannot
comment with great certainty on the time animals spend in places other than these
fair-weather exhibits. But for this musing we may suppose, conservatively, that from
about November to April, i.e., about 5 months each year, we shelter the larger part of
our collections indoors on 7080% of the days. Add to this the common practice of
spending the nightanywhere from 4:00 or 5:00 in the afternoon to 7:00 or 8:00 the
next morningin bedroom areas, and the simple math tells us that we are designing outdoor areas that are occupied for not more than 20 or 30% of each year of
animal life. Even though the profession is making tremendous strides in improving
life quality through more naturalistic and spacious facilities, we must continually
raise those issues that show where we can do better. And, for me, enriched living
should not end when escape from the winds of winter bring seclusion and crowding
and hard-texture surfaces and a mentally numbing lifestyle into the lives of our charges.
Nor should it end when the lights go out at night in the bedroom areas of each
exhibit. All of this is by way of suggesting that architects, managers, directors, keepers, researchers, and anyone else having a say in what and how we build must ever
strive to break out of anthropomorphized thinking as to what is good, or at least
acceptable, for those we keep.
It is in this vein that I would like to raise a few questions for pondering. In our
striving to provide shelter, is it not revealing that we refer to the winter quarters of
elephants, cats, apes, etc., as houses, meaning display areas with attached bedrooms and kitchens? Must we always have giraffes or rhinos in locales where it
is sometimes 20F outside? Must apes sit indoors for up to 16 hours each day
because staff has finished its 8-hour work shift and gone home? Might not the stress
of unrelieved closeness to each other and to caregivers while overwintering impose a
cost in terms of disease susceptibility or lowered reproduction? Does the daily removal of familiar scents in the pursuit of clean indoor environments disrupt the animals sense of belonging to a place or even their normal reproductive rhythms?
Excessive pacing, drumming, spitting, and flinging of dung are examples of
only the more obvious behavioral indicators of animals attempts at creating a stimulating environment for themselves. Learned helplessness may be less noticeable to
the casual observer, but no less a symptom of the understimulation that goes with
long hours in simplified environments. Disruption of olfactory systems of communication or reproductive suppression induced by low-level chronic stress from closeness of conspecifics are further examples of states about which we know very little,
but possibly with consequences no less real. And, of course, along with our passion
for conserving the diversity found in our collections, we must be equally passionate
about the humaneness of the enterprise.
There is no escape from the reality that changing the status quo will entail a
greater outlay of funds. First, there is the cost of the additional research needed to

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prescribe the best possible living environments for captive animals. Also, it seems to
me that the approach used by a few zoos here and there, namely, to enclose vast
areas in heated superdomes that allow outdoor living, even in the dead of winter, is a
good example to emulate, for it insures naturalistic and thermally comfortable environments at all times. And, if comparative studies were carried out, I suspect that the
directors and accountants who must worry about the bottom line would find that
these initially more expensive structures are actually cost-effective in the long run.
Finally, there is the prospect of enhanced labor costs if staffing beyond the usual 8hour work shift is to become a normal part of the keeping regime. However, until we
reexamine our practices, perhaps even our motives, leading to the holding of large
segments of our collections indoors for nearly two thirds of each and every day, even
when the flowers are blooming, we may be overlooking adjustments in approach
that would address a range of concerns from both within and outside our profession
about the quality of captive life. To all of these concerns, there are no cheap answers,
only important ones.
Donald G. Lindburg
Executive Editor