Faust generally inspects the people entering his habitat. Flicking his long, yellow tongue (the monitor equivalent of sniffing), he methodically starts with each person’s shoes, then slowly flicks and licks at shin level and completes the inspection at the knees. His curiosity satisfied, he stands still to have his broad head scratched and his muscular neck rubbed. After an aquarist waters the exhibit’s plants, Faust settles into the wet sand under a palm tree. Then, while one person picks up wastes and spot-cleans the windows — Faust likes to wipe his mouth on the glass — the other checks habitat temperature and humidity while keeping an eye on the dragon’s whereabouts.
A third aquarist watches all three from a reserve area, where an emergency phone is within quick reach. One line can be used to contact the animal health department, in case Faust has a medical problem. The other is a hotline to the security office. A ring on that means call the paramedics.
Safety is the byword in dealing with Faust. His loose-fitting skin drapes over toned muscle: He is the embodiment of potential energy. “Move confidently but slowly enough so that he sees you coming,” senior aquarist and Komodo team leader Ray Owczarzak instructs coworkers who are training to tend the huge lizard. “Confidence is a big thing. If he senses that you’re nervous, he will test you.”
Working on the Komodo team is an elective for Fishes Department staffers. Some leaped at the opportunity; others took a pass.
“We hadn’t expected that we’d be a hands-on crew, going into the exhibit with him, touching him and working with him,” says Owczarzak. Before meeting Faust, who was born at the San Diego Zoo in 1993 and hand-raised at the Ft. Worth Zoo, the exhibit maintenance plan was to lure the lizard into a specially constructed reserve area with some food, then clean the display, beat a retreat and release Faust back into his habitat.
But within an hour of arriving at Ft. Worth to learn the ins and outs of Komodo care, Owczarzak and Shedd collection manager Mark Schick found themselves face-to-face with Faust. As they were sitting on a rock in the exhibit talking with Faust’s keeper, the dragon ambled over to Owczarzak and tested him — by climbing onto his lap. “As soon as he rested his head about mid-thigh, he decided to” — here the aquarist makes a long, loud hissing sound — “exhale all the air out of his body. I think I turned white. The keeper gave me a good look and said, ‘Don’t worry. It’s normal.’ ”
Kind of like an 8-foot lizard is normal. But besides the sonic jolt, Owczarzak says, “His breath is pretty nasty.”
Beyond their prehistoric proportions and the savagery with which they ambush prey, Komodo dragons are known (and feared) for the lethal bacterial brew in their mouths, the result of shreds of meat rotting in their teeth. Even if a deer or wild boar wrests itself from a Komodo’s jaws, any wounds it sustains will fester, and the animal will die in a few days. Then the Komodo’s keen olfactory powers lead it to the carcass.
While Faust dines on commercially raised, fresh-frozen rats and rabbits, rather than the sun-stewed carrion enjoyed by his wild counterparts, his mouth is no less hazardous, and Owczarzak takes no chances with his team’s safety. “If your hand comes in contact with a tooth, you go to the hospital,” he emphasizes. “If his tongue touches an open cut, you go to the hospital.”
Faust is fed once a week. To ensure that the dragon differentiates between the daily morning cleanup and the much-anticipated weekly meal, aquarists enter his habitat through an access door on the left side of the exhibit and feed him from a Dutch door on the right side.
When the top half of the feed door opens, Faust snaps to attention. At five clicks of the metal feeding tongs, he hoists himself on all fours and, with a powerful, serpentine swaying of his torso, trots to the door. The distinct five-click cue was designed to keep Faust from salivating at a handclap, the clatter of keys, or other sharp or metallic sounds. When Faust is in position, 3-foot-long tongs emerge from the door opening, with the first of four 1½- to 2-pound thawed and slightly warmed white rats dangling from the tip.
Owczarsak originally scheduled a half hour for the weekly feeding. But the Komodo often bolts each rat, headfirst and whole, as fast as the aquarist can reload the tongs. Dinner can be over in about three minutes.
Then Faust crawls off to one of his heated rocks to better digest his food.
The 1,000-square-foot habitat, which re-creates features of both Komodo Island and Faust’s Ft. Worth home, is all about heat. Overnight temperatures in the mid-80s begin to climb with a 7 a.m. “sunrise,” when the first set of ultraviolet and heat lamps switch on. “Usually the first set of lights doesn’t do much for him,” Owczarzak says, “but when the second set pops on, you can see him yawning and stretching and getting ready for his day.” By midday, it’s 95 degrees, with humidity in the 30 to 40 percent range, comparable to the hot, semiarid environment of the Lesser Sunda Islands in Indonesia. “Sunset” starts after the aquarium closes, and the last lights go out around 9 p.m.
Hot water coils embedded in the three large concrete rocks in the habitat heat these basking surfaces to 105, 110 and 115 degrees respectively, from left to right. The center rock protrudes through the exhibit wall so guests can feel just how warm the cold-blooded lizard likes to be — and possibly get shoulder-to-shoulder with him. But you’ll usually see him on the rock set for 115 degrees, which also surrounds a heated, filtered pool that he likes to soak in, chin resting on the rocky ledge.
Additional warmth comes from metal halide heat lamps and radiant heat panels, both suspended from the ceiling. Ultraviolet lights mimic the spectrum of sunlight, enabling Faust to absorb calcium from his food.
Because the reptile becomes more active as he warms up, the aquarists enter Faust’s habitat only in the morning, when he is a bit sluggish and more manageable. His interactions with staff members are pleasant for him, involving either neck rubs or food. Faust’s only aggressive behavior was at Ft. Worth, when he raised his hefty tail and threatened to lash a veterinarian. (After the reptile calmed down, the vets were able to proceed with an exam, including blood work.)
“He’s made me jump a couple of times,” Owczarzak admits. “He’ll huff and puff, sometimes a real quick puffing sound. Along with that there’s a head snap and the eyes give you a quick scan or focus on one part of your body or on whatever you have in your hand. And that can be a little unnerving.”
But Owczarzak counts himself among those who are most comfortable with the massive lizard, who outweighs him by about 25 pounds, and he does seem to have a special rapport with Faust. “Everybody says that he recognizes me and that his head will turn if he hears me talking in the public space. I try not to buy into that.
“But I do love him,” the aquarist continues. “I’m not one to use names with animals, and I’m typically hands-off. But Faust is cool. He’s definitely the highlight of my career so far. It’s not very often that you can go nose-to-nose with an 8-foot reptile. So it’s fun. I enjoy scratching him between the ears and seeing him turn his head and close his eyes.”
Owczarzak pauses and confides, “When I was a little kid and found out that dragons weren’t real, I was a little upset. Now that I can actually work with one — this is great!”
