He squealed no more after this, but attended strictly to business, and hung on like grim death. There was a momentary pause, and then the daring little pig shook his enemy vigorously as he would a rat. For a second or two over thirty-two feet of python coiled and lashed about the cage in a furious manner, but the pig hung on.
His triumph was not long. The contest was too unequal. Suddenly the thick coils left the air, and, descending on the plucky little animal, coiled round and round, crushing his body and cracking his ribs as though they were nutshells. But still the pig hung on,—hung on until the coils of the snake gradually relaxed,—and then, as they loosened weakly and fell off, the pig, game to the last, dropped off the python’s neck, dead. His enemy lay quietly beside him—the conqueror and the conquered together.
Had the razorback only allowed himself to give one little squeal when he was being crushed, he would have been obliged to let go his hold and we might have saved the python, but his pluckiness cost us a valuable reptile.
Elephants are big feeders, and few realize the quantity of food they need. A fair-sized elephant in a healthy condition will consume on an average about two hundred pounds of hay, a bushel of oats, and six or eight loaves of bread a day. This is in addition to all the other things in the way of peanuts, cakes, crackers, nuts, etc., it gets from the visitors. Occasionally one or two large basketsful of fresh vegetables are given to each one, for elephants are fond of any vegetables, fruits, or grain, and nearly always seem to be hungry.
From this a rough estimate can be gathered of the vast quantity of food it is necessary to provide for a group of only half a dozen elephants. The difficulties are often considerable, especially in small country places where the produce is not equal to the demand. It will often take one or two men all their time to procure enough food to keep the animals even in fair condition. Grain can generally be had, but too much grain is not good for them, and the necessity for a variety, which is not always obtainable, causes much difficulty.
Elephants are not particularly strong or robust constitutionally. They suffer from various ailments in captivity, even with the greatest care. Colds and chills are the most frequent, and, though not themselves dangerous, they sometimes lead to pneumonia, and when once an elephant has pneumonia he never recovers.
It is almost impossible to give an elephant medicine. Every way has been tried, but in many cases to no purpose. The moment he tastes it nothing will induce him to swallow it, and he promptly spits it out. Capsules have been tried, in the hope that the animal would swallow them whole, but he at once crushed them with his teeth, and at the first taste the usual spitting out took place. Medicine has also been introduced into loaves of bread and drinks of water or milk, but the elephant detected it at once, and it was, of course, absolutely impossible to force it down his throat, as can be done with some of the other animals.
About the only possible thing to make an elephant take when he has a bad cold is a good dose of hot whisky and onions, and he appears not only to like it but to wish for more. However, if elephants are looked after and cared for properly, it is rarely necessary to give them medicine. They are generally healthy, and the chief thing to guard against is a chill or cold, when there is always the possibility of pneumonia following.
An elephant sleeps in a peculiar manner. Nearly all lie on their left sides with their trunks curled up, making a peculiar hissing noise at regular intervals, something like the sound of steam issuing from a kettle. He is not a sound sleeper. He does not take much notice of his keeper prowling round in the night, but should anything strange or unusual take place, the hissing stops suddenly, two small, red lights appear in the elephant’s head, and the animal is wide awake and evidently watching. At the first sign of danger he trumpets shrilly, so that oftentimes he gives the first alarm, when no living thing besides suspects anything amiss.