The First Thing Every Species Corrected Me About

There comes a point with every species I've worked with where I stop thinking I understand them quite as well as I thought I did.

Sometimes it takes weeks.

Sometimes it takes five minutes.

Sometimes it takes one particularly opinionated tortoise, one overly enthusiastic bearded dragon or one snake that's never read the care guide.

Every single animal I've ever worked with has taught me something. Usually several things. This article isn't about the big lessons or the dramatic stories. It isn't about Agnes savaging my bootlaces, Kaos chewing my hand or Theodore very politely deciding not to chew my hand.

This is about the very first thing each species quietly corrected me about.

The moment I stopped thinking,

"I've got this figured out."

...and instead found myself saying...

"...Huh?"

Agnes

This particular little lady needs no introduction. She's my twenty-kilogram bulldozer with incredibly strong opinions about grass, hay and, more importantly, what treats I happen to be carrying.

So, what was the first thing Agnes corrected me about?

That I couldn't out-stubborn a tortoise.

When she first arrived, she'd happily have lived on lamb's lettuce, rocket and romaine forever if I'd let her. The problem was, sulcatas aren't designed to live on salad. They're grazers. Proper grazers.

Changing that diet wasn't difficult because I lacked the knowledge.

It was difficult because Agnes possessed the sort of determination usually associated with hostage negotiators.

Every time I offered grass, she'd look at me as if I'd personally offended her family.

Every time I stood my ground, she'd stand hers.

Eventually, she realised that grazing wasn't optional.

And I realised that sometimes good husbandry isn't about finding a better solution.

It's about having the patience to stick with the right one.

Theodore

Another rescue who needs very little introduction. Theodore is, quite simply, the bestest boy you could ever hope to meet. Seven and a half feet of "awwwww" wrapped up in a very large snake.

So, what did Theodore correct me about?

Never judge a book by its cover.

It's the sort of thing your parents tell you when you're young, but Theodore reminded me that it's still worth listening to as an adult.

When people hear "seven-and-a-half-foot boa constrictor", they tend to picture an animal that's aggressive, unpredictable and just waiting for an excuse to remind you who's at the top of the food chain.

Then they meet Theodore.

Like many genuinely powerful individuals, he's naturally calm, surprisingly gentle and possesses a level of patience that I can only aspire to. He'll happily sit with you, investigate the world at his own pace and generally behave as though being enormous is of absolutely no consequence.

He taught me that size tells you almost nothing about temperament.

Character does.

Perry

I don't have favourites.

But if I did... It'd probably be Perry.

Two brain cells left fighting for third place and all the personality of a puppy that hasn't quite worked out what the objective is yet.

Another RSPCA rescue, Perry arrived in an awful state. Underweight, weak and carrying enough problems that it would have been very easy to start changing absolutely everything all at once.

So, what did Perry correct me about?

That complexity doesn't always require a complicated solution.

When an animal is in poor condition, the temptation is to fix every problem immediately. Bigger enclosure. Different diet. More enrichment. More supplements. More everything.

Perry quietly reminded me that rehabilitation doesn't work like that.

Sometimes success comes from solving one problem well. Then solving the next one. Then the next.

One meal.

One shed.

One kilogram.

One small improvement at a time.

By the time you look back, those little victories have become a healthy snake.

Perry taught me that complicated doesn't always mean complex.

Sometimes the simplest plan, carried out consistently, is the best medicine.

Scratch and Shelby

Scratch and Shelby - my leopard tortoise double act.

If you've read their Tale, you'll already know these two couldn't be more different if they tried.

Scratch approaches life with the enthusiasm of an over-caffeinated Labrador. If there's trouble to be found, he'll discover it. Usually at speed. Occasionally via the pond.

Shelby, on the other hand, arrived convinced the world was out to get her. Quiet, reserved and, for a long time, seemingly frightened of her own shadow.

So, what did they correct me about?

Trust the animal.

Scratch needed rehabilitation.

Shelby needed confidence.

My instinct, like most keepers, was to help. To intervene. To solve the problem.

Instead, they quietly reminded me that sometimes the best thing you can do is step back.

Provide the right environment. Provide safety. Provide opportunity.

Then let the animal do the rest.

I finished their story by writing:

"Sometimes you don't fix them at all. You just give them the opportunity to figure things out for themselves."

Quoting yourself always feels a bit strange.

But every now and then... Past You gets something right.

Duckie

Duckie - The almost legendary, physics-defying, Newton-hating pretend lizard.

As Cuban False Chameleons go, Duckie is... special. Interactive, bold and seemingly convinced that gravity is little more than a strongly worded suggestion. She's equal parts trapeze artist and stunt performer, permanently giving off the sort of energy that says,

"I'm going to jump..."

Whether you've agreed to catch her or not.

So, what did Duckie correct me about?

That the animals don't read the care sheets.

And they couldn't care less what you think you know.

Every species arrives with a reputation. Every care guide describes what's typical. Every experienced keeper builds expectations based on years of observation.

Then an individual like Duckie turns up and cheerfully ignores the lot.

She reminded me that care sheets describe species.

They don't describe individuals.

The moment you assume you've got an animal completely figured out is usually the moment it decides to prove you wrong.

Duckie has been doing exactly that ever since. They'll challenge your expectations.

If you're lucky... they'll completely destroy them.

Lessons learned?

Every single one of these animals taught me something different.

Not because the books were wrong.

Not because the care guides were wrong.

But because every individual is exactly that... An individual.

I've spent thirty years learning from reptiles and amphibians. Sometimes they've reinforced what I thought I knew. More often they've politely—or not so politely—pointed out where I'd got it wrong.

And I'm very grateful they did.

Because I don't think experience is measured by how much you know.

I don't know everything.

In fact, the longer I spend around reptiles and amphibians, the less convinced I become that anybody does.

What I do know is this...

I've spent thirty years learning from experts that happen to have scales.

I just wish some of them would stop proving me wrong quite so creatively.