Elongated Love Affair With the Giraffe

A giraffe is like the pretty girl you envy but cannot hate because, despite her loveliness, her preternatural elegance and her dewy, sweet eyes, there’s something gentle and even a little goofy about her. A giraffe is no peacock.

But a giraffe is a teddy bear. That’s clear from reading “Tall Blondes” by Lynn Sherr (Andrews McMeel Publishing, 167 pages, $16.95).

A correspondent for ABC’s newsmagazine “20/20,” Sherr tells us that giraffes are incredibly friendly with lots of buddies in the animal world. They are devout pacifists and terrific mothers. They are vegetarians, eating 75 pounds of leaves a day, but their browsing stimulates new growth so they actually help propagate the plants they consume. They come in at least nine different patterns with varying colors, but they don’t discriminate, mating readily with other variations. They’ve been seen to cry.

Sherr is a serious giraffophile. “They embody the best and worst in all of us,” she writes, “the awkwardness that inhibits our social lives, the poise that inhabits our dreams.”

She fell in love with the animals on a trip to Africa in 1973. A tall blond herself at 5 feet, 8 inches, Sherr claims kinship with them (although some giraffes are redheads and brunets). She tells of her collection of giraffe likenesses. She even includes a picture of herself going mouth to mouth with a tall one, claiming they have very sweet breath.

Her book is thoroughly researched. Everything from how big they are at birth (about 6 feet and 150 pounds) to the differences in their markings (each is like a fingerprint) is answered or at least explored via several sources.

Sometimes, though, it seems that Sherr’s editors let her enthusiasm guide their judgment. There are more than a few moments when Sherr tells you once and then tells you three or four more times. Also, she quotes liberally from the writings of naturalists and scientists whose styles tend toward the academic.

Still, there are many moments when Sherr’s extensive research pays off. There’s a 1901 Ringling Bros. ad, a prime example of P.T. Barnum’s sucker theory, proclaiming that the circus had in its menagerie the only giraffe known to exist in the world.

Sherr also tells the story of 9-year-old Nicky Arundel, who in 1937 made the absence of giraffes in the Washington, D.C., Zoo a crusade in his self-published neighborhood newspaper. A congressman saw Nicky’s missive and amended a bill, slipping in an appropriation for zoo giraffes. Later, Nicky’s News campaigned in favor of a new restaurant at the zoo and got that, too.

The best chapter is on famous giraffes in history. The section on the giraffe that walked to Paris is an early tale of fanaticism spurred by the media and accompanied by such tie-ins as giraffe toys, wineglasses and bed pillows.

But the sweetest tale is of Victor, an 18-footer in an English zoo that, while mounting his mate on a Thursday evening in September 1977, lost his footing and collapsed, putting a ton of weight on his thin legs and causing muscle damage. The effort to get him back on his feet drew offers of aid, advice and prayers from around the world.

Finally, a construction crew built scaffolding around Victor and the British Navy sewed a harness to support him while he was lifted. It seemed to work at first, but then suddenly, poor Victor died.

His death inspired a eulogy in the London Daily Press, donations to conservation projects and creation of the Society of Victor Invictus, dedicated to the hardy spirit of the fallen lover.

The story has a happy ending. It seems Victor had a successful mount before the fall; in June 1978, one of his consorts, Dribbles, delivered a baby.

They named her Victoria.