A week ago I had an experience that may make of me one of the last willing participants in a dying art, the oldest and greatest show on earth. I went to the circus and, thanks to the animals and their trainers, I had a fantastic time.
To tell you the truth, I wasn’t expecting much. The circus had rolled into town a few days before, and I’d already had a chance to observe many of the animals (over 60, many exotic, according to posters all over town). I saw two black pigs, a lot of chickens and geese, some ponies, three Bactrian camels, two llamas, a wildebeest, emus, a yak, a cat and two dogs, freely roaming the grounds.
In the same field, there were two truck trailers, the wooden entrance to the big-top, not yet in place, and one mobile home. Either this was a small operation, or not all the members of the circus had arrived. I walked the grounds, petted the ponies, took photos and pretty much had the menagerie to myself. If I had walked away with a llama or invited one of the dogs to follow me, I’m not sure anyone would have noticed.
Every afternoon a car drove back and forth through the village, announcing weekend show times. Sunday arrived and I set out for the 11 o’clock matinee. I bought my ticket, stood in line, waited. I thought the little clown who peeped from a crack in the tent was busy seating people inside. It took me a while to realize that the small crowd outside—36 in all, I counted—represented the entire audience.
Finally, the clown, dressed in a droopy harlequin costume, folded back a flap of the tent and invited us to file in to the sound of recorded music: Sousa marches, the music of Nino Rota, who composed the soundtrack for “La Strada,” Fellini’s 1954 movie about a small carnival starring Anthony Quinn. Most of us took our seats on bleachers, a few paid double for front-row seats. Everybody, with such a small crowd, had an excellent view of the one-ring show.
A drum roll, the curtains open, three beautiful lions from Kenya and their trainer burst into the cage occupying the entire ring. I’d seen lions represented on the posters around town, but thought they were just a come-on. Now I had them before my very eyes, three surly beasts, growling, showing their teeth, obeying reluctantly. They run, they jump, they mount metal stands, they form a triangle, with one of the lions placing his impressive paws on the backs of his two companions.
The man next to me says under his breath, “Mais il n’est pas gentil avec ses bêtes,” he’s not very nice to his animals. The tamer prods them, and we’re so close we can see the metal point on his prod. He cracks the whip, he withstands the lions’ growls, their outstretched paws trying to strike him. My heart is beating fast, I can see the lions wet with sweat, I can smell them, the smell of wild beasts, I feel fear and I can feel fear around me.
It is a great performance. The small audience applauds wildly. We too are members of a dying breed, an audience overwhelmed by the courage of the man in the cage.
Then it’s over and it’s time for a change of set. The cage must come down. A man I recognize as a local comes out to begin dismantling it. He is soon joined by the lion tamer, who, after his death-defying feat, must work, hands-on, if the show is to continue. Then the ticket seller and the little clown get into the act, all working together to prepare the stage.
The next act is juggling, and the juggler is none other than the lion tamer, brilliantly playing a new role. He is a handsome man, young, a one-man-show from the look of things.
Another change of set, the preparation of a new act, and while this is going on, the little clown and a little fairy entertain us. Shanny and Ethan, the announcer tells us, and this is when it begins to sink in. This circus, “The Shanny and Ethan Seneca Circus,” is a family affair. Mom takes care of tickets, the concession wagon, props, Shanny and Ethan, no more than 6 and 8 years old, seat the guests and entertain us. Teddy, the father, does just about everything else.
From beginning to end, the audience loves it. There are other animal acts, trained horses and llamas, the wildebeest and yaks. When the barnyard animals scurry into the ring, fanning out in two directions, their trainer is none other than Shanny, dressed in a Bo Peep costume, carrying a dressage whip disguised as a staff.
At the show’s end, Teddy Seneca, one-man-show, stands in the center of the ring and reads us a poem about his love of animals and his pride in performing in the greatest show on earth. I’m ready to claim it sent a shiver up everybody’s spine and made some of us misty-eyed.
The year 2017 has not been a good one for circuses with animal acts. It marks the closing of Ringling Bros and Barnum & Bailey Circus after 146 years. New York City and Los Angeles have banned the use of wild animals in all entertainment, private or public. The subject is under debate in Paris and 62 French municipalities have already taken the step.
Many studies show it is impossible to meet the needs of wild animals in captivity; there is also ample proof of their physical and psychological suffering. As recently as November 17th, in the French science magazine Science et Avenir, a panel of veterinarians, philosophers and ethnographers called for the ban of animal acts in France.
This is progress and the show may not go on for Teddy Seneca and family.
Since I was a child in Pottsville, attending performances at the 16th Street field or at Agricultural Park, I have loved the circus, including the animal acts. I suppose it’s the wild beast in me.
Freed from exploitation, wild animals will lead better lives. If we could just bring the same care and attention to our fellow humans, we’d truly make this world a better place.
