We Bought a Zoo - Hardcover
The remarkable true story of a family who move into a rundown zoo– already a BBC documentary miniseries and excerpted in The Guardian.
In the market for a house and an adventure, Benjamin Mee moved his family to an unlikely new home: a dilapidated zoo in the English countryside. Mee had a dream to refurbish the zoo and run it as a family business. His friends and colleagues thought he was crazy.
But in 2006, Mee and his wife with their two children, his brother, and his 76-year-old mother moved into the Dartmoor Wildlife Park. Their extended family now included: Solomon, an African lion and scourge of the local golf course; Zak, the rickety Alpha wolf, a broadly benevolent dictator clinging to power; Ronnie, a Brazilian tapir, easily capable of killing a man, but hopelessly soppy; and Sovereign, a jaguar and would-be ninja, who has devised a long term escape plan and implemented it.
Nothing was easy, given the family’s lack of experience as zookeepers, and what follows is a magical exploration of the mysteries of the animal kingdom, the power of family, and the triumph of hope over tragedy. We Bought a Zoo is a profoundly moving portrait of an unforgettable family living in the most extraordinary circumstances.
In the market for a house and an adventure, Benjamin Mee moved his family to an unlikely new home: a dilapidated zoo in the English countryside. Mee had a dream to refurbish the zoo and run it as a family business. His friends and colleagues thought he was crazy.
But in 2006, Mee and his wife with their two children, his brother, and his 76-year-old mother moved into the Dartmoor Wildlife Park. Their extended family now included: Solomon, an African lion and scourge of the local golf course; Zak, the rickety Alpha wolf, a broadly benevolent dictator clinging to power; Ronnie, a Brazilian tapir, easily capable of killing a man, but hopelessly soppy; and Sovereign, a jaguar and would-be ninja, who has devised a long term escape plan and implemented it.
Nothing was easy, given the family’s lack of experience as zookeepers, and what follows is a magical exploration of the mysteries of the animal kingdom, the power of family, and the triumph of hope over tragedy. We Bought a Zoo is a profoundly moving portrait of an unforgettable family living in the most extraordinary circumstances.
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
Review:
An engaging tale from someone who dared to do something different
From the Author:
When I first saw the details for a small zoo in Dartmoor advertised through a normal residential estate agents in 2005, I thought it was an insane idea. Now, three years and many unimaginable tribulations later, I can say, without fear of contradiction, that it was.
I had a comfortable, if frugal, life in the sun of southern France, writing a book about animal intelligence and a column in the Guardian, a happy position which had taken many years to achieve, and I was reluctant to exchange this for a such a dramatically different way of life (in one of the wettest counties in England) with so many potential pitfalls and unknown variables. But the upside, if it came off, proved too alluring, for me and the rest of my family. We persuaded each other that it was a good idea, and in October 2006, with no previous experience, we bought a zoo. My mum, 76 at the time, sold the family home, and moved into the broken down manor house at the centre of the zoo with my brother Duncan, me, my wife Katherine and our two small children. We expected things to be difficult, though ultimately rewarding enough to make it all worthwhile. We were right on both counts, though the ratio of `difficulty' to `rewarding' was slightly different from that which we had anticipated.
The rewards were evident every day right from the start. Tigers, bears and lions in the garden (well, in enclosures in the garden), the chance to bring a better life to more than 200 exotic animals, and re-open a much loved attraction which also had a valuable role to play in education and conservation. This was our motivation - the financial rewards of zoo ownership, by the way, are non-existent or, more accurately, negative.
The problems in achieving those rewards, however, were, as we kind of knew they would be, far greater than expected. Finding qualified staff to manage the animals, trying to borrow vast sums of money on a closed, failed business, and dealing with the regulations associated with getting a Zoo licence so that we could open to the public, kept us occupied about 23 hours a day. Then there were the complications caused by the escapes of several dangerous beasts, and by far the worst, right in the middle of everything, a family tragedy. Katherine had been diagnosed with a terminal brain tumour in France which had been successfully treated, but returned during our first Christmas at the zoo.
This terrible loss could have been the end of everything, but somehow the zoo, complicated as it was, became our salvation. It wasn't just that the zoo was a distraction. It was a bit like being part of a large farm, where life goes on, despite the loss of individual people or animals. There are births and deaths, and even greater issues to consider, like the welfare and development of all the animals, and the staff. The zoo is bigger than any one person, and the cycle of life is very evident within it.
And it does also present extraordinarily absorbing problems. One of the biggest headaches, surprisingly, is the trees. The thirty acre site is home to hundreds of huge, luscious trees (one of the things which attracted me away from the parched scrubland of Mediterranean France). But I'm a worrier, and any one of them might blow down at any moment, injuring members of the public, or potentially worse, breaching an enclosure during the night. This could release three tigers, two lions, three bears, a pack of wolves, two pumas or a jaguar, or any combination of the above, out onto the moor and into the stormy night. And we probably wouldn't hear about it until morning.
These are the sorts of things which have me pacing around in windy weather in far reaches of the park at 4.30 in the morning. The day begins early, usually with a staff problem (we have 37 now, so the scope is virtually endless), proceeding to the interminable admin, and then, if you're lucky, overseeing a building project like the design of the new lynx enclosure. But what makes it worthwhile, and so worthwhile, is the exposure to the animals. The public see them basking in the sunshine, or feeding by shinning up their new scratching posts to retrieve a treat placed carefully at the top. We get to see them behind the scenes, when they're being cleaned out, or poorly, or giving birth. Carrying and then stroking an anaesthetised tiger on a stretcher to a vet room which we have built, is a privilege of almost unimaginable proportions. Touching a lion under anaesthetic, holding the tongue of a bear so that the dentist can treat his abscess, also knowing that we are helping to improve his life, these are the things which have made the whole experience worthwhile. You never lose the sense of privilege, but you do begin to get used to experiencing it. We're spoiled, really, which becomes apparent when new people, like volunteers or new members of staff, experience it. They are struck with awe, which we feel too, though we have grown used to expecting it. Already we are relatively old hands, appreciative but unfazed by the proximity of large unconscious predators. Who could ask for a more worthwhile job? Or a better retirement for an adventurous older lady?
In the middle of this barely controlled mayhem, with limitless help from my brother Duncan and my mum, I found time to write this book, We Bought a Zoo, kindly commissioned by Harper Collins. Their support, and that of the camera crew who made the four part documentary series on BBC2 Ben's Zoo (a misnomer over which I had no control and caused all kinds of family ructions), made the whole thing possible.
And if someone reading this finds themselves in the unlikely position of thinking about buying a zoo? My advice would probably be don't do it. But I'm glad that we did.
I had a comfortable, if frugal, life in the sun of southern France, writing a book about animal intelligence and a column in the Guardian, a happy position which had taken many years to achieve, and I was reluctant to exchange this for a such a dramatically different way of life (in one of the wettest counties in England) with so many potential pitfalls and unknown variables. But the upside, if it came off, proved too alluring, for me and the rest of my family. We persuaded each other that it was a good idea, and in October 2006, with no previous experience, we bought a zoo. My mum, 76 at the time, sold the family home, and moved into the broken down manor house at the centre of the zoo with my brother Duncan, me, my wife Katherine and our two small children. We expected things to be difficult, though ultimately rewarding enough to make it all worthwhile. We were right on both counts, though the ratio of `difficulty' to `rewarding' was slightly different from that which we had anticipated.
The rewards were evident every day right from the start. Tigers, bears and lions in the garden (well, in enclosures in the garden), the chance to bring a better life to more than 200 exotic animals, and re-open a much loved attraction which also had a valuable role to play in education and conservation. This was our motivation - the financial rewards of zoo ownership, by the way, are non-existent or, more accurately, negative.
The problems in achieving those rewards, however, were, as we kind of knew they would be, far greater than expected. Finding qualified staff to manage the animals, trying to borrow vast sums of money on a closed, failed business, and dealing with the regulations associated with getting a Zoo licence so that we could open to the public, kept us occupied about 23 hours a day. Then there were the complications caused by the escapes of several dangerous beasts, and by far the worst, right in the middle of everything, a family tragedy. Katherine had been diagnosed with a terminal brain tumour in France which had been successfully treated, but returned during our first Christmas at the zoo.
This terrible loss could have been the end of everything, but somehow the zoo, complicated as it was, became our salvation. It wasn't just that the zoo was a distraction. It was a bit like being part of a large farm, where life goes on, despite the loss of individual people or animals. There are births and deaths, and even greater issues to consider, like the welfare and development of all the animals, and the staff. The zoo is bigger than any one person, and the cycle of life is very evident within it.
And it does also present extraordinarily absorbing problems. One of the biggest headaches, surprisingly, is the trees. The thirty acre site is home to hundreds of huge, luscious trees (one of the things which attracted me away from the parched scrubland of Mediterranean France). But I'm a worrier, and any one of them might blow down at any moment, injuring members of the public, or potentially worse, breaching an enclosure during the night. This could release three tigers, two lions, three bears, a pack of wolves, two pumas or a jaguar, or any combination of the above, out onto the moor and into the stormy night. And we probably wouldn't hear about it until morning.
These are the sorts of things which have me pacing around in windy weather in far reaches of the park at 4.30 in the morning. The day begins early, usually with a staff problem (we have 37 now, so the scope is virtually endless), proceeding to the interminable admin, and then, if you're lucky, overseeing a building project like the design of the new lynx enclosure. But what makes it worthwhile, and so worthwhile, is the exposure to the animals. The public see them basking in the sunshine, or feeding by shinning up their new scratching posts to retrieve a treat placed carefully at the top. We get to see them behind the scenes, when they're being cleaned out, or poorly, or giving birth. Carrying and then stroking an anaesthetised tiger on a stretcher to a vet room which we have built, is a privilege of almost unimaginable proportions. Touching a lion under anaesthetic, holding the tongue of a bear so that the dentist can treat his abscess, also knowing that we are helping to improve his life, these are the things which have made the whole experience worthwhile. You never lose the sense of privilege, but you do begin to get used to experiencing it. We're spoiled, really, which becomes apparent when new people, like volunteers or new members of staff, experience it. They are struck with awe, which we feel too, though we have grown used to expecting it. Already we are relatively old hands, appreciative but unfazed by the proximity of large unconscious predators. Who could ask for a more worthwhile job? Or a better retirement for an adventurous older lady?
In the middle of this barely controlled mayhem, with limitless help from my brother Duncan and my mum, I found time to write this book, We Bought a Zoo, kindly commissioned by Harper Collins. Their support, and that of the camera crew who made the four part documentary series on BBC2 Ben's Zoo (a misnomer over which I had no control and caused all kinds of family ructions), made the whole thing possible.
And if someone reading this finds themselves in the unlikely position of thinking about buying a zoo? My advice would probably be don't do it. But I'm glad that we did.
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- PublisherDoubleday of Canada
- Publication date2008
- ISBN 10 0385666217
- ISBN 13 9780385666213
- BindingHardcover
- Number of pages261
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