My Review of That One Gorilla at the Cleveland Zoo

The Cleveland Metroparks Zoo Credit: Scene Archives

It was a warm August day in 2023, the kind that made the zookeepers sweat and the ants plot. I, a humble carpenter ant (Camponotus pennsylvanicus), found myself deep in contemplation, brainstorming new research trajectories, or rather, new galleries to excavate. With the collective wisdom of my colony – a bustling superorganism of minor and major workers, scouts, and our venerable Queen – we formulated an idea so pioneering it sent ripples through the colony’s decentralized decision-making system.

Our Queen, that magnanimous matriarch and consummate scout, volunteered herself for the riskiest reconnaissance mission. Ever fearless, she left the safety of our nest to explore the uncharted wilderness of the Cleveland Zoo’s gorilla exhibit. There, amid the mossy, decaying wood, a veritable palimpsest of cellulose and lignin, she found a modest nesting site, perfect for a modest colony expansion. Nothing to go ape shit over, but it will do.

“It’s not exactly the Serengeti,” she reported via pheromone communication, “but the gorillas seem uninterested. It is a suitable stop on our way to the cheetah exhibit. The gorillas even assured me that the wood was communal property. A gift from the zookeepers themselves.”

I took up the mantle of project architect, meticulously mapping the blueprint for a new gallery system. With antennae twitching in excitement, I laid a pheromone trail along the grain of some mock wood samples outside the exhibit to test tensile strength and moisture content. This was no ordinary stick; this was the stick, the cornerstone of our future expansion.

Meanwhile, our simian observers, led by one particularly surly silverback with modest intelligence (hereafter referred to as “That One Gorilla”), watched with the curiosity and adeptness of a wellness influencer suddenly put in charge of public health policy. He repeatedly reached toward our proposed gallery site as if to claim it with a casual “I was here first” paw swipe, a classic case of seniority without merit.

The major and minor workers were on high alert. We all knew what was coming. This gorilla had zero engineering skills but infinite entitlement. It was only a matter of time before he tried to appropriate our work.

True to form, our Queen confronted That One Gorilla with all the diplomatic tact of an ant queen speaking to a bellowing primate. “Respect the boundaries of innovation,” she signaled, her antennae poised with authority.

He responded by stomping his feet so violently that the ground trembled like a minor earthquake, sending vibrations through the cellulose substrate. “I want a gallery, too! And it must be finished before you touch any other wood in this exhibit or the better wood in the cheetah enclosure. I’ve always wanted a soft, architecturally exquisite piece of wood. I told the last silverback about it! This is my idea.” Cue chest pounding for emphasis.

We diplomatically agreed to share the gallery, provided he contributed in some tangible way. (Spoiler alert: he did not.) After all, the wood was provided by the zookeepers, and the idea was ours, but we were magnanimous. We had bigger plans, like conquering the neighboring cheetah exhibit’s prime real estate.

As we laid down our pheromone trail and began excavating, carrying tiny cellulose chips out of the tunnel and depositing refuse away from the brood chambers, That One Gorilla lurked nearby. He popped in periodically to ask the same, painfully uninformed questions, and once even tossed some of our carefully removed debris back into the tunnels, risking fungal colonization. The nerve.

Work progressed under duress – walls were smoothed, galleries expanded – until near completion. Our Queen sent him a detailed communique, inscribed on a leaf and etched in pheromones, outlining our monumental effort expended on this “stupid piece of bark,” and making note of his lack of involvement in the progress.
The next morning, That One Gorilla reappeared, exhibiting the classic displacement behaviors of a large male facing irrelevance. Some have called him distinguished, but he did not act in a way that demanded respect. Instead, he was stomping, chest-thumping, and aggressively failing to make a point. He stammered, flailing about, spittle flying:

“This was my idea! I’ve wanted this since I told that one gorilla you never met! In fact, I told you about the wood here, it was me who started this whole thing! How dare you steal it? You’re just an ant – not even a queen! A lowly worker, barely promoted. You know nothing about wood! I am the wood expert! This is my exhibit! I could eat you! Gorillas sometimes eat ants, you know!”

My mandibles curled in amused disdain. He went absolutely bananas. And, as the Queen said, this was really nothing to go ape shit over.

Calm as a freshly excavated gallery wall, I replied:

“We don’t care. If this means so much to you, take the wood. We were heading to new galleries anyway. Finish the tunnels yourself – I’m sure your dexterity and opposable thumbs will do wonders.”

He went ballistic. Pounding, stomping, whining, despite getting his way. I, meanwhile, set off as scout, laying a fresh pheromone trail into the next frontier. Like our Queen before me, I am unafraid of the unknown. Nor am I intimidated by giant apes with small ideas.

I am ready to lead. Ready to dig. Ready to move forward.

New discoveries await.

Subscribe to Cleveland Scene newsletters.