One weekend, my partner and I visit our local zoo. It is a lovely day, so it is quite crowded with lots of people all around everywhere we go. A little boy — maybe six or seven years old — is proudly telling his mother what he’s learned about how humans have evolved. You can imagine what comes next.

Mother: “No, no… I’m pretty sure that’s not true.”

Boy: “Yes, it is! We evolved from apes and—”

Mother: “No, none of that is true. I mean, think about it. If people came from monkeys, then why are there still monkeys, huh?”

Boy: “Uh… but—”

Mother: “You see? It just doesn’t make sense.”

And off they went, the matter settled. I know these people are everywhere, especially in the US, but it was so hard to just keep on walking and not say something snarky.

I work for the IRS. My job is to go into potentially dangerous situations to conduct field audits and occasionally to conduct seizures.

Imagine, if you will, the beauty of rural North Dakota. We have a gentleman here who runs an exotic zoo in his fortified complex.

He is nine years delinquent on his taxes. He also files them sporadically and irregularly. The lien was filed. He did not respond. The time has come to pay the piper.

We cannot seize his house, as it is his only residence, but I’ve already arranged for potential buyers to take his exotic animals.

The first problem is that we don’t actually have his address, just a post office box. This isn’t actually an insurmountable problem. We go to the post office in the town closest to him and ask where he actually lives.

They give us fairly precise directions, using a number of local landmarks, for how to get onto his property through the correct access road. They also give us a warning: this man shoots first and asks later.

I call up the big guns: the armed agents of the treasury, the Secret Service. We roll up on his property in a big-ol’ armored truck. Sure enough, shots ring out. He’s probably added firearms charges to his ordeal, but that’s not my problem. I simply record the fact and move on.

It takes some tense communication over a megaphone and text messaging him pictures of our badges, but eventually, he agrees to let us onto his property.

His next demand is that we leave our guns behind. I patiently explain to him that, as he’s armed and his whole clan also looks to be armed, I’m not leaving my guns behind. Imagine a 5’4″ tall woman staring down a 5’10” man with military tattoos and a wildman beard in the crisp clean North Dakota air. Eventually, he agrees to let us inside.

He sits us down at the table, and his wife makes some tea.

Client: “So, what are you here about?”

Me: “I need to see the animals.”

He looks at me like I’ve grown a second head, but he eventually agrees to lead me to the animals. He takes me downstairs to a series of underground cages full of exotic and dangerous animals.

I take pictures of them, I verify their status, and I have the veterinarian I brought along with me do an assessment of each animal’s health. They’re all in reasonable shape but ornery and somewhat underfed. There are no major injuries nor signs of major neglect.

Client: “So, what is this about?”

Me: “We’re taking your animals to pay your back taxes.”

Client: “Hah. You can’t do that. You won’t be able to find buyers before the statute of limitations runs out. We’ve played this game before; you’re just gonna hold them for a couple of months and give them back to me.”

Me: “I already have a buyer.”

Client: “You do not.”

Me: “I do. If you pay us what you owe us now, we won’t seize your animals.”

Client: “I’m calling your bluff.”

Me: “Fine.”

I made the phone call, and then we sat and waited. The animal transports were waiting in the nearest small town, where we had come from. While we waited, we sipped at the tea.

One of the family members called out.

Nephew: “Uncle!”

Client: “Yeah, boy?”

Nephew: “There are more people at the gates. A whole lot of them.”

Client: “What?”

Nephew: “They’ve brought animal transport vehicles. The Treasury people aren’t letting us shoot at ’em. What should we do?”

Me: “Let them in.”

We held the auction right there, in his catacombs, in front of his face, selling his animals one by one. With each sale, he looked more and more dejected. About four animals in, he started crying. By the tenth, it had turned into ugly crying. By the end, all he could do was rock back and forth moaning the names of his animals.

He still owed us a great deal of money, but this was probably all we could recover from him. As a small kindness, I notated in his file to cancel the remaining debt.

Then, we left.

I am working at the help desk at the zoo. A mother and her two children come up to me.

Mother: “Where are the penguins?”

I hand her a map and show her their location. 

Me: “They’re right here, ma’am.”

Mother: “And are any of them gay?”

I am thrown a little by the question but regain my composure.

Me: “Gay, ma’am?”

Mother: “Yes, I heard that penguins are all going gay now.”

Me: “You would have to ask one of the zookeepers, ma’am, but I don’t believe so.”

Mother: “Oh, good. I can take my kids to see them, then. Any other gay animals I should be warned about?”

Me: “We… don’t keep tabs on the sexual orientation of our animals, ma’am.”

Mother: “Well, you should!” *Heads off*

What did she think, like, we gave the animals diversity questionnaires when they arrived?

I work in a science center/museum/zoo. We have an indoor open-water exhibit that features a raised basin with live fish. Reaching into the water and/or petting the fish is strictly prohibited. Visitors learn about this and the reasons for it — potentially aggressive fish, not introducing cosmetics, disinfectant, or bacteria into the water on the visitors’ part, etc. — before they enter the exhibition. The basin itself also features a large and visible sign asking people to not touch the water; plus, there is a staffer present for supervision. At the moment, that’s me.

Living behind the sign by the basin’s edge is a pair of large African cichlids. They are fairly territorial, especially if they have fry to protect, which these two do.

It’s a quiet day, so I’m taking my time chatting to a patron, telling them about the river landscape we’re depicting while facing toward the entrance of the room and the “Don’t touch the water” sign. A man wearing a T-shirt walks in, stops in front of the sign, and visibly reads it. He walks up to the water’s edge and dunks his arm in up to the elbow; the water doesn’t go much deeper than this. There’s a big splash, and he yanks his arm back out, screaming wordless bloody murder. His shirt is wet. 

For added humor, our crocodile, in a glass enclosure behind the man, decides to surface and snap her jaw in the water at that moment, probably in response to the noise.

The man jumps when he spots the crocodile. Then, he spots me and rushes up, sounding almost comically hysterical.

Man: “The fish attacked me! The fish attacked me!”

Me: *Trying not to laugh* “Sir, I’m very sorry, but I very clearly saw you reading the sign that says not to touch the water. This is why.”

Man: “But the fish attacked me!”

I’m still stifling laughter but trying to stay calm and polite.

Me: “Sir, you were told not to touch the water before entering the exhibition, and I just saw you reading the sign. These fish will defend their territory against intruders, especially now that they have babies. We make these rules for a reason. It’s also possible that you will accidentally endanger them because—”

Man: “But! The! Fish! Attacked! Me!”

I pause for a moment.

Me: “Yes, I understand; I saw the incident. If you are hurt, I can take you down to the first aid room. We also sell shirts at our souvenir shop if you would like a dry one.”

Man: “No, thank you… but the fish attacked me.”

He walks past me and out of the room without a look back.

The other patron I was talking to turns to me, we hold eye contact for a moment, and we burst out laughing simultaneously. 

Other Patron: *Still chuckling* “He’s lucky that the crocodile is behind glass; I wouldn’t have wanted to hear him screaming if he’d lost a hand.”

During college, I nanny, along with taking online college classes. I’m twenty and the kid I take care of is three. We are at the zoo and I see one of my high school teachers there. I go over and say hi and chat for a bit. 

Teacher: “You look really great! And look, you have an adorable daughter! How old is she?”

Me: “She’s three, but I’m actually her nanny.”

Teacher: “Come on, [My Name]. You don’t have to be ashamed. You’re a young mom. That’s okay. You don’t have to lie about it.”

Me: “Uh, no. I am the nanny. You realize I would have been pregnant with her in high school and had her beginning of my senior year if that was the case.”

Teacher: “Oh, uh, yeah. I guess I didn’t think about that.”