Why I Wrote My Elephant Books

“You want to meet an elephant?”

I studied my friend Richie’s face. He was dead serious. We were having breakfast in a diner in upstate New York, about an hour’s drive from New York City. Not exactly the venue where invitations like these are extended.

“Are you kidding me?” I asked. I loved elephants. Loved them. Who knows why these passions take hold, but I was an elephant aficionado. In fact, so was Richie. We were long time friends, having met years ago when I was breeding and showing St. Bernards, and he and his wife Jackie bought one from me and named it – Elephant. Our friendship was sealed from that day on. Richie and Jackie were my favorite people. They understood this whole elephant thing more than anyone could be expected to since they were also caught by it.

“You going to Africa?” I asked, mentally going over my bank account and hoping I could join them.

“She’s just a few miles from here,” Richie answered. “Of course, I would have to get permission from her owner first. She’s very protective.”

 His expression hadn’t changed. He’s normally a jokester, but he still appeared quite sincere. I glanced over at Jackie, who looked very unassuming, like inviting someone to see an elephant was just part of their normal activities.

“Duh!” I replied, or something equally brilliant.

The barn was big, maybe the size of a huge horse barn, and plain. Gray wooden sides, weather beaten, but in good repair. There were big sliding doors. I caught myself breathing hard with expectation, my legs were shaking. The owner was there. A gracious white haired lady, wiry, taut, like the elderly ladies I’d seen who had been running horse farms for years. Her face was weather beaten, but like her barn, she was in good repair, exuding a graceful strength and a certain you-ain’t-gonna-mess-with-me toughness. She slid the doors open.

And there was the elephant.

I burst into tears.

There is nothing quite like standing next to an elephant.

They are bigger than you could ever think. Wide, wrinkled, mottled gray, shoulders and back covered with hay, yes, you know all about that. It was her face that made me cry. They are more noble, more dignified, more soul penetrating than ever you could think. More real, more lumbering, more graceful, more beautiful, more heartbreaking.

She was an Asian elephant, napalmed as a baby during the Vietnam War, and rescued. Her trunk had scars; she couldn’t raise it over her head. But she could, and did, raise it over mine.

She sniffed my face. Touched the tears that I had no control over. Ran her trunk up and down my clothing and back to my face and I loved her instantly and forever.

Judy Reene Singer is the author of Horseplay, Still Life with Elephant, and An Inconvenient Elephant (now available from Harper Paperbacks).