thekingtonga

Written in Cologne, September 29, 2010

As you know I was born a Prince, brought up as a gentleman and now I’m a King. And none of these would ever normally “kiss and tell.” But I feel this time I may just share some secrets with you. After all, we do it in public – twice a day, in front of thousands. And anyway, it is not something that either of us is ashamed of. Also, we established a couple of blog entries ago that we’re among friends here, right?

So here comes the truth about kissing lions, in this particular case the daily kisses between a super lion and his super trainer.


(c)Bastian Mertens



A picture says more than a thousand words, so here we have the famous Lacey nose kiss – a specialty of the house. And lets be really clear about this, Martin isn’t kissing me on the nose because of bad breath or anything. He just likes kissing my nose because the fur there is especially soft. He’s fond of popping a loving kiss right there, and so am I. As you can see, I generally close my eyes, enjoy the feeling, and relax …


(c)Bastian Mertens


This little yawn doesn’t mean that Martin’s kisses bore me. No, no, no! Quite the reverse.

Sadly, it’s all a bit one sided. You see, despite his great love for me, Martin isn’t too keen on me kissing him back. And no, for the last time, it is not because I have bad breath – at least not as long as I’m not on cod-liver oil (which I have once every week and, according to Martin, then I stink like a dead fish that’s been in the sun too long. No wonder! Cod-liver oil is a mixture of the livers of codfish, haddock and shark). No, the problem is my tongue is, how shall I put this, a touch rough for him. It is covered in thousands of small ‘papillea’ and these rough barbs could strip the flesh from your hand. Imagine what would happen if I was to actually kiss him back. Gosh! I feel sorry for him already.

Anyway, we cats need these special hard sharp papillea on our tongues – and not only to get every bit of meat from the bone. We need them for our personal hygiene, they help us comb our fur – or that of others. I’m now looking (rather enviously, it must be said) at Kasanga. While I spend hours grooming myself, this lazy older (by six years!) so and so lets his wives do the job. He lies there lazily while they get all the sawdust out of his mane and clean his coat until it gleams. Whenever I watch them my thoughts drift towards giving up my hard-won bachelor status and I muse about inviting Diamond and Princess into my enclosure.

But, hey, I’m lion enough to get myself washed and groomed. Besides, as Martin says, I’m a typical cat because I can’t stand dirt and bad smells (except the whiff of cod liver oil which I find rather appealing. Martin hates the smell – and I bet he’s glad that he wasn’t born in Roman times. One of their favourite dishes was a liquid condiment named “Garum”. It was made from different fish parts, including intestines, pickled and then left out in the sun for a few weeks. I bet that had a delicious, tummy-rumbling odour when it was bought back into the house, but feel that Martin may not agree). No, as far as cleanliness goes, I look after myself very well and I ask that Martin keeps my quarters squeaky clean too. One thing I am especially fussy about is the prompt removal of my, er, my, ahem, my more solid ‘waste products’. That’s one smell I really can’t abide.

I hope this little insight into our daily kiss has helped you see that kissing lions is really rather fun. Well-groomed lions like my family and I don’t smell at all – only a bit of fur and body warmth. And because we’re lovely and clean, our human loves kissing us – and we love being kissed because it proves to everyone exactly how fond of us he is.

Translated from German by Sibylle Luise Binder and Paul Hardy

Last time I blogged I mentioned that I needed to correct something about one of the youngsters. Well here goes (I’ve only got a minute before Martin comes in to groom me, so this won’t take long).

You should know that to get this on the internet I employ the services of a human secretary. I dictate my pearls of wisdom to her and somehow she translates them into a blog. I don’t need to know the detail. But one thing I do know is that she is certainly no lioness. Her hearing wouldn’t be up to it for a start. In fact, she has distinctly inadequate hearing. Hence she got the name of one of the youngsters wrong and then carried on and on using the wrong name. Sigh. It’s time to correct that. Rascal No.3 isn’t “Rusty”, but “Frosty”.


(c)Petra Schramek
Here he is: Frosty as a baby.

As with all of us, there’s a story behind his name. His mother Ruth– as often happens with lionesses – didn’t have enough milk for him, so she didn’t take him. And he was born on a very cold night. Not only that, but he somehow managed to crawl to the coldest corner of the wagon. When Martin came in the next morning, he didn’t find a cheerfully squeaking cub, but a half frozen one. However, before Martin gives up one of his lions it must be as dead as doornail. So the little one got a cardiac massage, mouth-to-mouth, body warmth under Martin’s jacket and of course the very special Lacey lions baby bottle. It helped – baby Frosty thawed – and as you can see he became, despite his cold start, a splendid rascal.


(c)Nico Bundt
That's Frosty with his beloved brother and playmate Junior.

Translated from German by Sibylle Luise Binder and Paul Hardy

Written in Cologne, September 20, 2010

Ha! I knew that I’d get you with that headline. And I can tell you’re excited about today’s blog. I do so love it when the attention is all on me.

Actually, I’m a bit nervous about a big “reveal” and sadly I won’t be producing any incriminating photographs. You know how it is nowadays. You mention, once, in an obscure blog, a wild party you and your human had with few tasty chickens and before you know it, everyone knows. And then you go for a job, your new employer Googles you, and ... you’re out before you were really in. Most unsavoury.

Having said that, I should reassure you now that have no plans to change my employment. I’ve got a lifetime post as the star lion with THE star lion trainer. You can’t find a better position. Well, not for a lion. There really is no further I can go in my career (can I hear Martin grumbling in the background? “Oh, yes, there is. You could show a few more of your tricks in the ring, and make some white lion cubs!” The first of these I just ignore, after all, who knows better than me how to show myself at me very best. The second I just file under “everything in time”).

But before I get to the juicy stuff, I just need to check: I am among friends, right? Because I can only spill these particular beans among friends. I am? OK then, here goes:

Yesterday, an older human male was standing in front of my enclosure. He was using us lions as an example of how to be manly to his two sons. Only problem was that his ideas were relics from the middle ages. He really didn’t have much of a clue. He started off O.K. “lions are the Kings of the animals” and I agree (although there are moments when I doubt that when watching the three cheeky youngsters*. They don’t look much like princes to me). It was when he started on about our love lives that things started to go awry. He told his sons that strong, sexy lion guys like Kasanga (aren’t I being polite today, naming him first even though he’s only a brown lion) and me get “harems” in the wild, and rule over them.

I sighed deeply and looked over at Kas. The smart boy had a paw clamped over his ear and was pretending to be fast asleep: “Me? I didn’t hear a thing, I was in the land of nod!”
In the meantime our ladies … well, judge for yourself. Here’s a photograph showing some of Kasanga’s “harem”:


(c)Martin Lacey jr., Circus Krone

Be honest: Do they look as if they’d let Kas “rule” them?


The truth is - even if it’s kind of embarrassing for us lion Kings - that we males weigh around 100 kg more than a female. Bodily we are definitely above them, but – and this doesn’t go just for lions, but for males everywhere – “ruling” doesn’t work with lionesses. Au contraire, my friends.

Sometimes a new male lion comes along and beats the old bloke who had been the lover of a group of lionesses. Now the new lion is Lord and Master. But does that mean he can have his pick of the harem? Does it heck! Like ladies everywhere, lionesses are really picky. They have got to actually like the the new guy. He must be attractive to them and – even more important - he needs to prove he’s up to his job as defender of the tribe.

Sounds easy but it’s a big bad world out there and defending the tribe is a constant and dangerous job. Most often it involves defending the family, and especially the cubs, from hyenas. These nasty little predators hunt in packs, have really sharp teeth, are impudent, and frankly hard work. If a lion has to deal with, say, half a dozen of them he really has to get a sweat on, and what’s more he risks serious injury (we can’t just call in the vet, in the Serengeti, if we get an infected wound). And if the lion doesn’t manage to drive the hyenas away and a cub is injured, or worse, taken, he can be sure that the ladies will quickly move on to someone stronger.

Now, I promised the truth (and nothing but the truth) and therefore I need to say something here that you may find shocking: fondness for children isn’t exactly a virtue possessed by male lions. We are good, caring and loving fathers of our own babies and happy to protect them with our lives. However, when it comes to other lion’s offspring … well, how can I put this? Lions don’t deal in adoption, or step-children.

As a lion you know that your “harem” will move on in as little as a year or maybe two. And that’s not long, especially when you consider that a lioness pregnancy is 100 to 120 days, and they don’t come back into heat until after they have stopped feeding their cubs.

So, with time pressing, it is vital that if a lion has managed to win a few lionesses that he gets get them pregnant as quickly as possible. Yet he can’t do that for as long as they are feeding cubs, so, ahem, we, er, kill the cubs. Sorry, but that’s nature - red in tooth and claw as Tennyson has it - and certainly nothing like a Disney movie.

Anyway, I must get back to the dad telling his sons all about macho lions: Kas didn’t need to pretend to sleep. His and my two ladies showed great aplomb: Instead of hissing at the human as he said these laughable things, or giving Kas and me a mouthful about “Don’t you dare to think you could rule over us!”, they simply yawned.


(c) Claudia May
Our girls are very neat: sleeping tidily on the lions‘ shelf.



And with that, they moved on. Now I’m waiting for a well-informed mum to come along with her daughters. She will probably say something along the lines of, “girls, take lionesses, they don’t discuss women’s lib anymore. They just live it.” Kas and I will be very awake then. We are proud of our strong women! Besides, they look so damned cute when they roar.

*I’ve just noted an error that I’ll correct in my next blog entry, a little something about one on the youngsters. See you soon


Translated from German by Sibylle Luise Binder and Paul Hardy

Written in Cologne, September 16

Good morning from Cologne! The weather isn't great and it reflects our mood. We are a bit on the blue side today. And when I write "our", I'm not using the pluralis majestatis, although you realise that I am fully entitled to, but I'm saying that neither I, His Most Royal Majesty King Tonga, nor my human, the famous Martin Lacey Jr., are feeling exactly peachy.

As you are naturally interested in me, and therefore in my human, you will want to know why. Well, how can I put this? The animal right activists have promised us a "big demonstration" tonight. And what they yell through their megaphones and print on their flyers just makes me want to roar. My human says he doesn't care, but I know him better. It gets under his skin, particularly when they accuse him of animal abuse. It is not correct, and certainly not fair. All of us in the Lacey lion family know that he would rather have all his teeth pulled without anaesthesia (and because we're among friends, I can tell you that Martin would rather stand in front of 20 starving lions than sit for a single minute in the dentist's chair) than abuse one of his lions. Come on!? His entire life is organised around us, and our needs. He sees us as full and very loved members of his family (and, by the by, we see him not only as a full member of our own family too, but as our Alpha male). It really upsets me when someone says something like that about him.

Besides the rubbish these animal right activists broadcast goes right against my Royal Lion's honour, and against sense and truth too. They say that we are made to work by "force". Hello!? Force!? Could they use a tiny morsel of common sense for once? If they did, they'd immediately see that you simply cannot force a fully-grown male lion to do anything, even if you have got a famous and oh-so-terrible whip. For a start, my Royal mane and coat, and Kasanga's come to that, are thick enough to protect us from the teeth and claws of other lions! Whips just bounce off. Even if the whip were to accidentally hit us – and that just would not happen; Martin would be livid – it wouldn't impress us much. I doubt I'd even feel it. Just watch us at work, and ask yourself this: is there a lion among us who's afraid of the whip? Even the youngsters in training understand that the crack of a whip means no more than "Hey, listen up everyone!"

The whip never touches us. And here's another reason why. Martin is not suicidal. In contrast to the people shouting their mouths off, Martin knows a thing (or two or three) about lions. He understands that aggression always meets aggression. You watch us and see how he turns his back on Kasanga for the main part of the show. Martin wouldn't do that if he had any concerns that Kas was sitting there, high above his head, wondering whether it's his backside or his neck that's tastiest.

I'm going on a bit, but this spreading of mis-information gets to me. So while I'm on it, let me just set something else straight too. I've heard that some know-it-alls in the animal rights front maintain that our human has had our fangs and claws removed. Oh, please.

Let me clear this up once and for all. Yes, Prince Benedict and I lack our lower fangs. But they were not removed by the vet to protect our human, but because they were broken and causing us discomfort. As far as Kasanga and all the ladies are concerned, they have their full sets, and won't hesitate to use them if pushed. Incidentally, did you know a lion can bite clean through a human leg bone? No? Just saying.

And let's nail these stories about the claws too. Honestly, it would make me laugh if it wasn't so sad. Here's the truth: I am something of a master at scratch posts. Oh yes! I can ruin one faster than any other Lion. Martin says I destroy twice as many the other lions, and he's right. I have especially nice claws – and because I'm rather proud on them I keep them trimmed, and very sharp, by scratching. A lot.


(c)Nadine Birkmann, 2010


Oh look, here's a nice picture of me attending to my manicure – and please note that my claws are not fully extended in this shot.

You can't always see my claws because I am a member of the proud family felidae. That's cats to you and other humans. And we cats are – as you are learning through me – highly developed. So highly developed in fact that our claws retract allowing us to walk, run, jump and generally bounce about (OK, I admit it, bouncing isn't exactly my cup of tea. But that's because I have to move with the great dignity of my status, nothing to do with age. Don't think I couldn't move like lightening if I had to). Our claws only come out when we need them. And here's a thought: think how fiercely your pet cats - our little cousins - can scratch, and then imagine what happens when a lion gets going.


We all love to have a bit of manicure – as the scratching post in the enclosure shows:

(c)Martin Lacey jr., 2010



(c)Martin Lacey jr., 2010

But don't you worry: before the post supporting the net over the enclosures is ruined, our human supplies a new one. He doesn't do it because he's worried about us breaking out, though I dare say the rascal trio would like to visit the goats and the mini ponies (and yes, I admit I'd accompany them. Only to show the youngsters how do to these things properly, of course). No, these nets, even if they are a bit of killjoy, are there to keep feathered visitors away.

You'll be amazed, but there are birds out there – fat, appetizing doves for example – that are suicidal enough to fly right into the lions' den. They seem to believe that lazy-looking resting lions aren't dangerous. They're wrong. You can't imagine how quickly I can stir from the sweetest dream to catch an appetizing morsel like a bird! However, Martin thinks that our two-legged visitors might not enjoy this special show, even if it is appropriate behaviour for lions. Besides, he says he's got enough work with getting the sawdust out of my mane twice every day. He really doesn't want to have to get blood out of it too.



Translation from German: Sibylle Luise Binder and Paul Hardy

Written in Bielefeld, September 10


I cannot and will not deny it: despite having two fiancées, I am a confirmed bachelor. My philosophy of life is that girls are nice, but one shouldn't let them get too close. Certainly, one should never let a woman move in. They immediately start to redecorate and move stuff around, and soon all cosiness is gone. In the end, they usually have offspring, and if one lives with them, they expect one to babysit (just ask my human! He's so far gone he doesn't just look after his cub, but enjoys it!). That's not my thing. I want my human, my steaks, my home and my shows all to myself.


That doesn't mean I don't have some sense of family, though. On the contrary; my enclosure always stands opposite to that of the family, so I can see, hear and smell the others. We do regular concerts together (it's good for team spirit, amuses our human, and makes the visitors feel like they are in the jungle) and I keep track of everything that's going on over there. At the moment, I'm keeping an eye on one particular young gentleman: Prince Benedict.



(c) Nadine Birkmann

Here he is – and at the moment he's occupying a single flat. Martin doesn't want him to brawl with his mates Frosty and Junior again, so Prince is in the enclosure next to his friends. He can see, smell, hear and even play at the fence with them – which they all do eagerly – but there's no danger that Prince will get injured again.


However, they're already back in training together. Just this morning, Prince was back in the ring for the first time, and immediately proved that he's as fit as a fiddle again. He was almost too eager – but what else can he do? He is a brown lion, and as such must put forth some effort to become a star. On the other hand, it seems that Prince has learned his lesson; he didn't interfere when Frosty and Junior were brawling. (Junior bit Frosty on the nose. Boys will be boys – but don't worry. Martin has already treated the wound. It's not bad, and will heal without any trouble. And if Frosty has a little scar, he will certainly wear it proudly as a sign of his masculinity). Smart little Prince! He could almost be my son.


Admittedly there is something getting on my nerves. Prince's incident caused him to lose a fang – the lower right tooth couldn't be saved, and had to be pulled out. I worry about that – not because I fear he can't get along without it, however. I know from my own experience that a lion can easily live without the lower fangs. One doesn't need them for biting through chicken, and one can even break bones without them. I lost both of my bottom fangs some time ago. As a result, I always let my tongue hang out slightly – and that's now my concern with Prince Benedict.




(c)Dirk Candidus

King Tonga – only authentic with the slightly shown tongue.


Somehow I'm worried that Prince Benedict will start to hang out his tongue as I do – and I really wouldn't like that. It's my royal trademark – and despite my sense of family and feelings of affection for the little one, he is not, and will never be, a Tonga. And being a copycat is not worthy of a Lacey lion. Besides, as we all know, what looks stylish and cool on the right guy, often looks rather goofy on another. (You don't believe me? Well, just imagine [censored by my secretary who doesn't want me to insult humans here] in Martin's leather trousers. You see?).

By the way, since we're already talking about my tongue and my missing fangs, I'd like to make the entire story clear, once and for all. It's obviously necessary, because even the secretary got something wrong there.
You see, there was an incident with a branch. I played with the thing, it got stuck in my throat, and I was choking. Luckily, Martin was close by and saved me. He opened my mouth, put his hand in and pulled the branch out (while some people who were standing around almost fainted. They didn't think it was Martin's brightest idea to put his hand in a panicking lion's mouth. They underestimated me, though. I mean, I felt lousy, I was fretting, I was choking, but it was Martin, and I knew that he was helping me. Besides, who am I to bite my best friend?). However, that was not the reason I lost those two teeth.


The first one, I lost because it became inflamed. The vet had to pull it because I had a toothache, and though I've heard that Ramses the Great suffered all his life from it (there was more than one pus-filled tooth root found on the mummy) and was nevertheless a great pharaoh – I prefer to reign pain-free.
The second tooth– well, I'm embarrassed to admit that I messed it up myself. I played with the water trough – and that thing, unfortunately, is made of metal. I bit into it, and my second lower fang broke. They couldn't save it, and so it needed to be pulled as well.

However, if someone were to say that I couldn't bite any more, I'd invite him into my enclosure and show him what I can do with the rest of my teeth! Did I mention that I still have my upper fangs?

Having set the record straight, I'm going into my Tonga vehicle for a while. The show will begin shortly and I need a bit of meditation (some call it "sleep") beforehand.


Translated from German by Sibylle Luise Binder and Li Vogt

Written in Guetersloh, August 25th


I am angry. Really and truly angry, because I was robbed of one of my royal privileges – and that's something I do not cope with easily. I mean, what's the world coming to, if we start implementing equality among lions? I certainly won't wait for the day my steaks are fed to an ordinary, brown lion – that will be revolution. And I certainly don't want that, hence my zero tolerance for cutting privileges!


You want to know what happened to get me upset? I'll tell you– and I'm sure that afterward, you'll admit that something like that shouldn't happen to a lion like me.

As you probably already know, my human keeps – though I think it totally unnecessary – not just me, but a few other lions, as well. One of them is Prince Benedict – and no, I do not know how he came to have a royal title, because he's the son of the common brown lion Kasanga and, like his father, Mr Benedict hasn't got a single white hair which would confer nobility.


Nevertheless, Martin sometimes thinks he should treat Mr Benedict as something special. He raised him with a bottle (yes, he did so with me too, but for heaven's sake, I'm special!) and he took Mr Benedict with him on a visit to the Pope. I'm sure you will agree that I should have been there with Martin. With my white coat, I would have complemented the Pope's white robes perfectly. And my pink paws would have looked better next to his red shoes than the black paws of a common brown lion. Yet Martin defends his decision by saying that he only took Prince (at the time he wasn't even named "Prince Benedict", but just "Prince"; the "Benedict" was added to honour the Pope) because he was still a baby and could sit on Martin's arm. I think that's rather stupid reasoning. Of course, I am definitely too big for Martin to carry me, but in contrast to Prince, who fidgeted and even hissed at the Pope, I would have behaved myself. I would even have accepted the lash (though it wouldn't have been necessary), and I certainly wouldn't have deposited anything on the Pope's rug (while I'm not so sure that Prince Benedict didn't).


Honestly, I thought the thing with the Pope visit was bad enough. But today things got even worse. Mr Benedict was brawling with his mates. Of course, he's still a youngster, and young lions will tussle now and then, although I was never a rowdy like Mr Benedict and his friends Frosty and Junior. Besides, I always watched myself, while Mr Benedict obviously didn't. He got injured and needed the vet.

I have no issue with that. I'm even generous enough to hope the little one won't get too many nasty injections. No, what's really and truly gotten to me is this: to transport the common, brown Benedict to the vet, Martin is using the Tonga vehicle!


My royal carriage, built exclusively for me, until now used only by me, and of course not pulled by an ordinary car, but by two extra strong men, is now travelling through Germany with a brown lion on board, behind a car! And, more than likely, Mr Benedict is enjoying it, and believes that he will always get 'the royal treatment' from now on!

I could hiss and growl! But I'm behaving myself. Noblesse oblige, of course, and I am – in contrast to some other (brown) lions I know – a noble (white) lion. But I can't resist sulking. I've decided that I won't say a word to Martin today. And if he thinks that he can come and cuddle me later- the answer will be no. I'm angry with him. Really and truly. At least for today. So there.

Written in Lingen, August 13th


Sometimes even lions have their sentimental moments – and I've used the one I had today to give my secretary my photo album. She thinks I should share it with you because I am not only a beautiful adult lion, but was once a super cute baby and a very handsome youngster.
What do you think?





My human needs a lot of cuddling. Since he's had me, I've always provided it for him.




Well, okay – all my life, I've been a bit of a show off. These were indeed my milk teeth. Nevertheless, I already knew how to use them – or better yet, not to use them. At least not with Martin. Just look at his arms: although he lived with me, he got away unscratched and was never bitten.





When I was a baby, Martin took me with him wherever he went – even to restaurants. I always showed impeccable manners there, eating my steaks without ruining the plates, never destroying any furniture and trying not to scare other customers.
Unfortunately, I'm not allowed in restaurants anymore. Martin says he knows that I can behave, but he supposes the other guests would become rather nervous if he appeared with a full-blown lion on the leash. Besides, I am a bit too heavy for a normal chair these days.





The pretty, spotted lady behind me is Diva, Jana's Dalmatian dog. We always played very nicely together. Who says lions and dogs can't stand each other?





Lions need a lot of of light and sun to grow up healthy. Hence Martin always put me under the solarium in winter. I liked that a lot – and it shows, doesn't it? I've become a real gem.





Bathing day for little Tonga: I love swimming and enjoyed it very much when Martin took me to the river Weser for a swim. Only nowadays he can't do that anymore – just imagine people's faces if he'd come to the strand with me!





As a white lion one must always pay attention to keeping really clean and properly groomed. Therefore Martin always washes me and, while doing so, we cuddle. He needs that, you know.





Just between men: Martin and I talking confidentially. We always have a lot to talk about and besides, he's my best friend and I'd never betray his secrets.



All photos (c)Frank J. Keller/Circus Krone


Translation from German: Sibylle Luise Binder and Lisa Vooght

written in Meppen, August 6th




My human says I'm a good boy – and most of the time, he's right. I am a really nice, kind, friendly, charming and, of course, extremely handsome lion. One simply must love me – and I enjoy it when I'm beloved. But sometimes ... how shall I put it? A day in the circus is long, and though I've tried for years to teach Martin that some of the things he keeps himself busy with – like making a fuss about this absolutely unnecessary rhino – aren't good for him, he hasn't learned that it would be better if he'd spend all of his time with me.

Well, he doesn't – and so I can't help making up my own entertainment program now and then. The last few days have been really fun. My enclosure was built up near the elephants' tent, and that meant that the big fatties had to pass my home at least four times a day.

Now I'm not, in contrast to some of the lionesses in the opposite enclosure, interested in getting an elephant between my teeth. The girls are thinking about efficiency; one elephant could provide meals for their entire family for at least a week. Only I wouldn't want to belong to that family, because I'm convinced that elephants are awfully tough stuff. Besides, going after one of her beloved fatties would make Jana cry – and I can't bear to see a beautiful woman cry, especially not my Jana. (Besides, it would annoy her, and then she'd probably never give me the scraps from her delicious roast venison).

Yet despite all of my affection for Jana, sometimes I feel a bit bored.




Having these elephants close by– be honest: could you resist pulling their legs?



You know, I don't believe that elephants have much of a sense of humour. Nor do they have any understanding of the needs of a special lion like me. They proved that just last week.


As you know from reading my blog, I like green (yes, blue is my favourite colour, but in my enclosure I like green, too). And these days I always get a lot of green stuff to play with and arrange – though I must say that my personal interior designer (=Martin) is still lacking when it comes to his sense of decor. I always have to put the branches in the right order myself. Nevertheless, over the past few days I've at least been given a good supply of them – and there were even birch tree branches. I like them very much. They smell lovely and the leaves whisper softly when the wind moves through them.


The elephants are obviously even more fond of birch branches than I am. They like eating them – and each time that they passed my enclosure , I could see that they were thinking: "Why has he got elephants' food in his living room?" Colonel Joe, the big bull, seemed to slobber every time, and Jana's favourite, Bara, was only kept from reaching for them by her good manners (or was it her common sense? I have rather sharp claws).


The slobbering elephants, longing for my birch branches, are funny. And they are even funnier when the branches are moving. Then the big grey fatties get eyes like saucers and start to wave their ears. Sometimes they even start trumpeting. I think the moving branches really get on their nerves because they look so appetizing , and the elephants know they can't get to them. So I simply couldn't resist: every time the elephants came along, I played with my branches. I pulled at them, I walked and laid on them – anything that would make the branches move and catch their eye. I think they need that now and then – it's entertainment, isn't it? Besides, it amuses me – and what are elephants good for, if not for providing me with a bit fun?


Thanks to Ferdinando Klemenz for the lovely photographs!
Translation from German: Sibylle Luise Binder and Lisa Vooght

Written in Wilhelmshaven July 18, 2010

I think I should apologize. The last few weeks I've been rather quiet. I was in a blue mood and absolutely unwilling to do anything because it was so terribly hot. I hung around, sweating and waiting for better weather , which in my case means cooler temperatures. My human says – and he's right – that I'm a "winter lion". It's true; when it's hot out, I'm dreaming about snow, and how the flakes are melting on my nose, and how much I like it when the world around me turns white and quiet virtually over night. Summer definitely isn't my season, even when I'm spending it in the North. On the other hand, I do enjoy sea air. The soft wind, the salt – I like those smells. And yes, I do have a very good sense of smell, even if some people believe that smelling isn't my number one faculty.


As far as that is concerned – boy oh boy, sometimes I really wish I could speak! Then I could illuminate the super smart people who sometimes stand in front of my enclosure and obviously know all about lions. Yesterday, for example, I once again had a 'real' specialist come to visit. He came with his two kids, and because I was just blinking (I was a bit sleepy after the show) he explained to his offspring that I was blinded by the sun. Sorry, but the guy who's always got problems with being blinded by the sun is Martin, not I. My human needs sunglasses; I do not. In contrast to you poor humans, my eyes are perfectly able to adapt to all kinds of light. When it's very bright, my pupils become small slits – and then I could even stare at the African sun without being blinded. I mean, anything else would be rather impractical for a lion. You know, it would be rather difficult for us to get suitable sunglasses - even Ebay doesn't list them – and besides, they'd probably slide around during a hunt. Hence it's better that we can see without them. And while we're at it: the next human who stands in front of me and pities my being a poor ol' cat because he thinks that a) my eyes are bad and b) I cannot recognize colours, I'll hiss at. My eyes are good, thank you very much! In matters of adaptation to light they are, as I've already mentioned, even better than a human's.


Admittedly, cats can not see in the dark. If there isn't any light and it's really black around us, we are – as you humans are– dependent on our senses of smell and touch. However, long before I think the night absolutely dark and I can't see any more, Martin has usually stumbled three times over one of the tent's fixtures. In contrast to me (and all other cats), he doesn't have a Tapetum cellusom lucidum. My eyes (and those of other cats, dogs, horses, cows and other animals active at night) have a reflective layer behind the retina which reflects incoming light back through the retina to the photo-receptors. So, we see around 50 % more in half-light than creatures without this layer. (This is also what produces "eyeshine", that greenish or yellowish glow produced when your car's headlights shine on an animal at the side of the road at night.)


And another thing: our eyesight – or technically, the part of our brain which processes pictures - is probably "quicker" than yours. When you see more than 60 pictures in a minute, your eyes don't recognize them as individual pictures anymore, but rather sees them as something moving (that's the trick behind movies: you see far more than 60 pictures in a minute, so you think you see movement). Well, lions recognize more single pictures in a minute – and hence we see the tiniest movement our prey makes.


In evaluating distances we're better than you, as well. Our optical axis is – similar to you humans, but even more so – fixed so that the sight from our left and right eyes intersects at a certain point in front of our noses. Hence we are very good at evaluating distances, as opposed to animals whose optical axes don't intersect – like horses who have their eyes on the sides of their heads – and can't do it properly. This is undoubtedly an advantage when we're going to jump on prey (or when Kasanga's and my girls go up the walls of the central cage during the show).


Yet when it comes to recognizing colours, we're at a disadvantage with you humans. We have, like canidae (wolves, dogs, etc.) only two different cones in our retinas. They are sensitive to blue and yellow. We don't see red– and so I can't explain to you if, or how, it appears to us. However, it doesn't matter. Red isn't relevant in our world. None of our prey are red, and the red flowers on the steppe aren't important to us. But blue and yellow make green – that we can recognize - and it tells us things, like when we're on fertile soil and can count on finding many fat snacks around.


Our favourite colour is blue. Blue is the sky, blue is water, blue is beautiful. That's one of the reasons why I like my human so much. He's got blue eyes. And if he's painting my favourite board next time, I hope he does it in blue, because as a white lion, I look especially great when lying on blue. Did you hear that, Martin?




Translation vom German: Sibylle Luise Binder and Lisa Vooght

This entry was published in King Tonga's German blog at July 2, 2010.
Sorry for the delay in the English journal, but we're working on making up as quickly as possible!


I love travelling. I really do. It's one of the best things about living in a circus.


I'm a very happy lion in his best mood today. You see, yesterday we travelled from Gronau to Emden, and in doing so I rediscovered the fact that a lion's life in the circus is pure luxury. I get lots of diversion – and I can assure you, nothing is worse for a lion than boredom. So I really enjoy having new surroundings once a week.


What my humans call a "transfer" I consider rather exciting – although for me, as a veteran circus lion, it is of course also routine. I mean, the procedure is always the same; after the last show, I go into my bedroom and settle in for a for a nice, long kip. As I'm escaping into the land of dreams, the sound of work accompanies me: Martin and his helpers have begun to dismantle my enclosure. They are rather quick about it – they've already done it a hundred times, so they are perfectly experienced. Before I even turn around for the third time, they have most of my equipment – everything from my sitting boards over the scratching post, to the grills – packed on a truck. On another truck, they load our show equipment: pedestals, Kassanga's throne, the central cage, the gangway, and my disco globe. After two or three hours of work, the entire Lacey team – 20 lions, around 30 tons of equipment and, especially important to me, our truck with the cooling unit for my steaks – is ready to travel. And then (often in the middle of the night), we begin our journey to the next city in a convoy of at least seven trucks.


On the road, I spend most of my time sleeping. I like the soft swishing of the truck and I know Martin and his helpers are taking good care of us. That's why they drive in a convoy; to make sure that, in case of a problem with one of the big trucks we lions travel in, Martin – he usually drives the first truck himself – is there. He would just change the disabled tractive unit hauling the lions with one pulling the equipment, so that we lions would never stand on the road for long. So far, we've never had such a problem. Our vehicle pool is looked after by a specialist from the Circus Krone, which has a garage of its own, and the people there are very meticulous. They want to make absolutely sure that the animals will always travel in safety.


Besides, it isn't far from Gronau to Emden. Even though we always travel carefully, we arrived after only two hours on the road. I slept, but even in my dreams I somehow noticed that Emden smells deliciously of salt and the sea. I do love that – and I am also fond of the fresh winds that always seem to blow here.


Yesterday, when I woke up, Martin and his helpers had already built up my enclosure , and it was really great. We are in a big area with grass, trees and bushes all around, and we got a lot of fresh branches. Plus, I really, really like the sea air here. It whets my appetite, and so I had a few chickens for breakfast. Afterward, I worked on the decorations in my enclosure – Martin tries, but somehow he never manages to arrange the branches the way I like them.


Really, I feel great here. I like being up in the North, and I look forward to travelling along the coast line.



Translation: Sibylle Luise Binder and Lisa Vooght (thanks for the help, Lisa!)