"Sid" needed a new mama, so he traveled all the way from the jungles of Guyana to adopt Zooniversity’s owner, Allison, as his new mother. He’s turned into a real hip-baby — you’ll find him perched on her hip with arms around her neck while she does chores or just napping in those rare, quiet moments. Some of our Facebook fans met him online last Fall, when we were calling him "Dante." But, due to overwhelming demand by friends and family, we’ve renamed him "Sid," after the comical, prehistoric giant ground sloth in the animated Ice Age movies — hence, the kid-friendly name change. "Sid" doesn’t seem to mind at all. Actually, he doesn’t seem to mind anything, as long as a juicy grape is involved!

Two-toed sloths are found throughout tropical South America and are built for life in the jungle treetops. They spend nearly all of their time aloft, hanging upside down from branches with a powerful grip using their long claws. Sloths even sleep in trees, and they sleep a lot — up to 20 hours every day. The sloth is the world’s slowest mammal. So sedentary in fact, that in the wild algae can actually grow on their furry coat — earning them the "slothy" reputation that we equate with human laziness. Even when awake, they often remain motionless and are silent. At night they eat leaves, shoots, and fruit from the trees and get almost all of their water from juicy plants. Food can take up to a month to digest, due to their slow metabolism. Sloths are clumsy on land and usually only go to the ground to defecate. The sloth’s weak hind legs provide no power and their long claws are a problem on land. They must dig into the earth with their front claws and use their strong front legs to pull themselves along, dragging their bellies across the ground. If caught on land, these animals have no chance to evade predators, such as big cats or humans, and must try to defend themselves by clawing and biting. And, believe us, you don’t want to battle with an upset sloth — they are stronger than they look and can do some serious damage! They are also surprisingly good swimmers, sometimes falling directly from rainforest trees into rivers to stroke with their long arms.

"Sid" will be ready to travel with us this Spring and Summer to meet our school and library audiences. (A long day of birthday parties would still be too stressful for this baby, so he won’t be available for parties for awhile.) Be sure to invite "Sid" to meet your students — and be sure to bring along some grapes.

This sweet baby has been with us for a couple of months now and is tame and gentle and has already been traveling to meet our school students and party guests. He was shared with us by another wildlife expert, who found this lone, unclaimed baby in a sleeping poach when cleaning a cage full of adults. His name? Thanks to a plea for a suitable name on our Facebook page, we had lots of imaginative suggestions. One of our favorite librarians suggested "Diego," Greek for "teacher," and a name that is quickly recognized by any child under the age of 15 years as that cute, cartoon boy, who rescues rainforest creatures — what could be more appropriate?

This sweet, nocturnal marsupial will soon grow to be the size of a large kitten, especially at the rate he’s been chowing down on bugs and tropical fruit. He has bonded to our keepers and he is easy to hold and to pet. Be sure to invite him to your next event — he may even show you how he hangs upside down by his tail!

Read other blog entries about "Faith": Cancer: Exotic Animals Battle It Too and Blind "Faith," the Fennec Fox

This 8-pound, football-shaped, herbivore was sent to us by another wildlife educator who just didn’t have the time to work with him. He is usually found in the savannahs and jungles of central African and is considered by scientists to be the nearest living relative to the elephant (yep, elephant — they share similarities in teeth, leg and foot bones, testes, and other obscure details). They are amazing climbers, using the sweat on their soft, rubbery, footpads to suction themselves to the rocks. They normally live in large colonies of females with only one male (so this guy may be a bit lonely). They spend their days basking in the sun, nibbling on plants. They are extremely cautious — they’ll take a bite of grass, freeze, look carefully around for predators, and if all clear, will relax and chow down. They do not have front teeth — they have 4 front tusks that have squared-off ends and they won’t hesitate to use their powerful bite as protection (okay, I already learned this the hard way, ouch.) They are extremely tidy critters, using a common "potty spot," even in the wild. Their communal outhouse is infamous — it hardens over centuries and becomes fossilized into what is called "African Stone" or "Hyraceum," which is used in perfumery as a substitute for other musky notes like deer or civet — "Hmmm, what IS that mysterious scent you’re wearing?" 

This special guy is still adjusting to people and has been in veterinary care for the last three months to fix some existing health issues. He is gaining trust with each day and will now let us hand-feed and gently pet him. He has a demanding personality and will run you over for his favorite slice of banana. He grunts, squeaks, and hisses, depending on what he’s trying to tell you. He should be ready to meet our fans starting this summer, but first he needs a name befitting this assertive rock climber.

So, get those creative juices flowing and send us some name suggestions. Simply leave a comment here on the blog or post on our Facebook page. If you suggest the perfect name, we’ll brag about you in our next post — and, if you’re brave, we’ll let you hold his banana!

Abandoned Babies: One thing we’ve learned at Zooniversity is that "rescue" is not only sometimes unwarranted, often it can be downright detrimental to the animal. A human’s sweet-hearted empathy for a small, young creature makes us want to cuddle it, feed it, warm it in our hands, bring it into our homes for our children to play with—all of which can quickly send an animal into shock and sudden death. And, some animals may appear abandoned, when in fact the animal’s mommy is doing what she normally does from a distance—watching, grazing, food gathering—and the baby is fine where it is. Nature doesn’t always need our good-hearted intervention.

Injured wildlife: Finding a native animal hurt by the dog or a car is another matter. Our advice is to call in the experts—a veterinarian or a state licensed wildlife rehabilitation specialist. In Texas, it is against the law to own or to rescue most local species. Besides, rescuing native wildlife is an exact science that takes years of training and internship in order to do it properly and responsibly. Some veterinarians will accept injured wildlife if they have the expertise, some will not. The other option is a licensed wildlife rehabber—everyday folks like you and me who have spent years studying and training on a specific species of animal and have earned a permit to do this. The State of Texas strictly controls the lists of folks who have earned their rehab permits and each submits detailed rehab reports to the State for evaluation and tracking. This is a regulated thing, so don’t even think about keeping that injured young opossum—their dietary needs are so exacting that your well-intended dog kibble will quickly cripple it for life.

Where to get help: Dallas-Fort Worth has an incredible network of wildlife rehabilitation experts. First, start at two websites: www.dfwwildlife.org and www.wildcaretx.org. Both have decision trees and explanations that will help you determine if the animal needs your help or not. If it does, the sites will give you immediate instructions, as well as web links and phone numbers to connect you with a rehabber permitted for that particular species of animal. Licensed rehabbers do this as a personal mission. They are volunteers and they rehab wildlife using their own time and money. Please remember this and be patient while waiting for call-backs. And, please offer to pay them a modest (or sizable) donation to help care for the animal you are handing over to them. They’ll rarely ask you for money, but they will forever appreciate the gesture and your support for their dedicated efforts.

As a professional biologist, I knew better. But, I am also a mother; which means that I too sometimes abandon all sense and logic to appease the pleadings of one of my adorable, and always convincing, children. Meet Simon, the iguana who started it all.

There was Simon, perched lopsided on that branch in that crummy pet store. He was maybe 6 inches long and bright green. His twisted and broken back leg lay at an odd angle and his rounded puffy thighs didn’t match his emaciated tail and torso, a telltale sign of MBD (metabolic bone disease). He was one sick, green iguana hatchling. These guys are farmed in Mexico, Central and South America, over-packed in tight boxes, and shipped by the thousands to pet stores. Once on display, eager children convince their parents to buy them one as a “cool” pet—”It’s like having my own dinosaur, Mommy!” Most hatchlings will never survive a month, let alone a year. Without the proper lighting, heat, humidity, food, and supplements, they almost always die young.

There was my son, six years old, with his blond head turned to the side, staring at the pitiful, little green lizard. He didn’t beg for a pet. No, that would have been too easy for me to turn down. “Save him, Mommy. He’s too skinny and he looks so sad. Can’t we take him home and save him? We can’t let him stay here to die!” Now, I was in trouble. He aimed for the heart, bulls-eye! How could his Mommy not rescue this pitiful baby lizard? I knew better…I really knew better.

We named him Simon, after a Saturday Night Live Mike Myer’s character that my son liked. “He won’t eat his iguana salad, Mom.” Nope, wouldn’t touch a bite—lizard anorexia, too. Great. Weeks of vegetable baby food, hand-fed through a syringe, drop-by-drop..and calcium supplements…and heat lights…and sunshine. I knew better. Simon would live. Simon would live a long, long, time.

Fast forward 15 years. My 6-year old boy is now 21-years old. He’s away at college studying to be a wildlife biologist (surprise). And, I am here, still taking care of Simon.

As you can see, Simon is now one BIG lizard, about 4-foot long. He is a favorite stage star for Zooniversity’s educational shows. You might recognize him. His image is part of our company logo. There he is, draped across the top of our company name, looking very green and very regal. But, don’t take that as an endorsement for owning an iguana as a pet. Far from it! Iguanas are the #1 most abandoned pet in the exotic pet industry, and for good reason.

If you do your research, and invest a ton of money into proper caging, lighting and heating, you too can raise an iguana to adulthood. But, we do not recommend you try this at home. You see, adult iguanas do NOT make good pets. They are naturally territorial and they will defend their branch or tree with a quick scratch or tail whip. If they get a bit too amorous with their human, they can bite (part of natural mating behavior), and they do NOT let go. Their strong, muscular legs and razor sharp claws can climb trees, or your body, in an instant, leaving a trail of damage behind. And, of course, if you are silly enough to let them crawl and climb across your human furnishings, they can leave an invisible trail of salmonella for your family to enjoy. These are NOT good pets.

Simon was our first exotic rescue. More rescues seemed to find us, LOTS more. All those mouths to feed and all those vet expenses to pay, generated the idea of a wildlife education service—and Zooniversity was born. Today we are caring for more than 50 species of rescued exotic animals at Zooniversity, most of whom are unwanted or abandoned, former pets. We think it’s only fitting that Simon be our mascot and part of our logo. After all, he is the iguana who started it all.

I’d like to be a joey wallaby. I’d spend long hours sleeping peacefully in a fuzzy pouch, stretch my oh-so-big feet upon waking, guzzle milk when I was thirsty, delicately nibble on hay and grass when hungry, hop-hop-hop faster-faster-faster at play time, and “huff” for my humans to give me some always needed attention and cheek rubs.

Such is the life of our little joey wallaby, “Sydney,” who came to Zooniversity last Fall for foster care. Her first month was a challenge, tough on her and tough on us, but she soon taught us how to care for her needs. At 9-months old, she has reached all the important joey milestones: how to leap in (and out) of a man-made pouch, how to hop at full speed without hitting walls, how to mess-up a play pen in less than an hour (stinky…whew), and how to intimidate the zookeeper’s terrier by hopping full-speed straight at him.

Sydney has also stolen many hearts. She attends almost all of our school and birthday programs and is now a seasoned traveler. She’s learned to pop her head up out of her pouch on cue to meet our audiences. She basks in the oohs-and-aahs and relishes all the head and belly rubs she gets from admirers of all ages.

She is a star, and she knows it. But stardom is short-lived. She is getting bigger. She is drinker fewer bottles and needing fewer cuddles. She is needing more space to hop and more time in the sun. She is growing up and, regardless of my protests, she will be a “big girl” soon and will be ready to be returned to her mob. That will be a new world, a new set of challenges, a new series of milestones. And, like any mother, I can only hope I’ve prepared her well for life in the big world.

Sometimes you find an animal that acts unlike any other of its species, that defies all published descriptions of typical behavior, that beats the survival odds, and that far outlives its maximum lifespan. It’s rare, but it can happen, and these rare finds make the finest of animal ambassadors. The stories that come with these special creatures teach lessons that are more far-reaching than just the facts—their stories teach empathy, and respect for living things, and they illustrate the delicate balance between man and nature that only we can control or change. “Camo,” a very unusual male veiled chameleon, was such an ambassador.

 Camo was given to Zooniversity back in 2002 by a pet store clerk. That pet store is luckily now out of business — luckily, because it was infamous for its poor husbandry and often ill wild-caught live inventory. We don’t know Camo’s history before he came to us, but he arrived in very bad condition. Whomever had last set-up his cage, had placed his heat light in a way that allowed Camo to get too close to it. He had badly burned all the tissue off of his back knee and the raw bone and joint was fully exposed. It was infected. He was in obvious pain and had no appetite. He would not last long in this condition.

Our reptile vet felt that a veiled chameleon’s delicate system would never survive antibiotics and the only thing we could do to save him was to administer hydrotherapy twice a day. Now, this might sound high-tech, but what this really meant was that we were to force his open wounded knee under a running faucet of warm water and hold him there for 15 minutes, twice a day. This was not a happy chameleon. Male veiled chameleons are notoriously aggressive, territorial, and difficult to handle. And, this lizard was in pain—so he was rightfully down-right mean. He would hiss and bite at anything that came into lunge range, including fingers. Even the thought of administering this treatment made me shutter.

That’s when I learned just how unusual, how un-chameleon-like, this lizard really was. After a few false starts, I drummed up enough bravado to reach out and pick-up this hissing, biting, pinching, writhing, green creature and held his open, infected knee under the heavy stream of warm tap water. Camo froze and those pivoting eyes searched in all directions and then locked on me. Then, he relaxed. He laid calmly in my hands for those 15 minutes, twice a day—first for weeks, then for months. Gradually, granulation tissue began to form and the open wound filled in with healthy, new pink skin. It was three months before the knee was fully closed and the infection gone.

Camo and I built a strange relationship in those months. He defied all written description of a male veiled chameleon. This species is famous for guarding their turf and for being easily stressed by humans, noises, or changes in environment. Experts said they should never be handled, the stress can kill them. Yet, this odd creature would climb towards me when I entered the room. He would open his mouth wide to have worms or crickets popped in or a stream of water dribbled in as he greedily swallowed. He would endure travel carriers and long car trips with no signs of stress and would allow us to display him at wildlife shows to thousands of children and adults. He would let us hang him upside down, curl his tail around branches, and as a grand finale he would flick-out his long tongue to grab a worm. Even applause didn’t seem to stress him. He was a Zooniversity favorite, requested by clients and loved by audiences for 6 long years. Mind you, this animal is only supposed to live 3-5 years and he was already an adult when he came to us. This was no ordinary chameleon.

Last year, Camo developed an odd little lump near his eye. The veterinarian removed it. Then one appeared on his snout. It was removed, too. Then another appeared, and another. Biopsies showed it was not cancer, but it was not normal and nothing seemed to stop the progression of lesions. Camo lost his ability to see his food, he lost his appetite and he started to lose his balance. It was time to let our dear chameleon go. Thank you, Camo, for teaching us all that there’s more to learn about chameleons, and all of nature, than what’s in books.

Life is tough when you’re this little. Life is even tougher outside the security of Mommy’s pouch. Life is really tough when formula replaces Mommy’s milk and you’re surrounded by tall, strange-looking animals without fur or tails or pouches. Meet baby “Sydney,” an orphaned Bennett’s wallaby joey, who came to Zooniversity for foster care. This is Part 1 of her story.

Sydney was born about 7 months ago. Like all wallaby newborns, she was born the size of a jelly bean. She was born fur-less and pink. She was born blind and deaf. She spent the entire first day of life here on Earth climbing, hand over hand, up the fur on Mommy’s belly, looking for the opening to her pouch. She was lucky. She found it and climbed inside and found a warm place to hide and milk to drink and got an occasional bath from a furry, loving nose.

Then, at 6 months old, she found herself out of the security of her warm, safe pouch. The wallaby breeder kept her warm and snug until she met her new foster Mommy: me. Yes, I am now the foster mother to this tiny, sweet creature who depends on me for sustenance, warmth, protection and the learning of life’s lessons. Those are big wallaby shoes to fill.

She was so tiny. Her fur was brand new. She could not yet hop or maintain her body temperature. She was kept warm and cozy around the clock in a fleece-lined, man-made pouch with microwave-warmed heating discs. She was bottled with kangaroo/wallaby formula every  4 hours, all day and all night long. Learning to drink from a bottle was not easy and she struggled to figure it out. I struggled to keep her hydrated and nourished and alive. I also struggled to function (and to present wildlife shows) on very little sleep.

This first month with Sydney has not been easy. Sydney’s tiny body has had a very hard time adjusting from Mama’s milk to man-made formula. Our first four weeks together have included four trips to the veterinarian, three fecal tests, one bacterial culture, and countless supplements of probiotics, acidophillus, digestive enzymes and Kaopectate. The diagnosis? She is perfectly healthy, but her young digestive track still struggles to properly process the manufactured formula. Time will tell if her body will be able to figure it out.

Tummy troubles aside, she has learned to hop…and hop…and hop. And she’s learned that if the world is too scary, the safety of her pouch is just one somersault away. She’s learned to hold her own bottle and to guzzle it down with gusto. She has gained weight and a fuzzy new fur coat. She has tried to put a few pieces of hay and grass in her mouth, but figuring out how to chew them still eludes her. Life is indeed tough when you’re this little.

There are still many wallaby milestones for Sydney to reach and many new life lessons for her to learn before she can be returned to her pasture and lie in the sun with the rest of her mob. Until then,we will try to guide her through each new challenge and will chronicle her leaps-and-bounds for you in future blog entries. –Allison