Xuxa leaned on her shovel. “From whom? The loggers I reported last month? Or the rancher whose cattle are dying because he poisoned the creek?”
The tapir in question, a gentle giant named Saturnino, was currently sleeping against the back wall of the clinic, his spotted hide twitching as he dreamed. He had been found as a calf, wandering in circles near a burned clearing, his mother a patch of scorched fur and bone. Every time Xuxa tried to lead him to the forest gate, he would simply lie down and refuse to move, his long nose trembling.
The word seize hung in the humid air. Xuxa looked at the IBAMA officer. “Do you know what happens in Manaus?” she asked him.
The IBAMA officer lowered his binoculars. His face had gone pale. “She’s not doing anything,” he whispered. “They are.”
“Senhora Mendes?” the bureaucrat said, not meeting her eyes. “I am Dr. Lemos from the Ministry of Agriculture. We have received a complaint.”
“Calma, pequeno,” she whispered, pressing a poultice of crushed neem and barbatimão bark against the jagged gash on a howler monkey’s flank. The monkey, no bigger than a football, whimpered. Its family had been scattered by a trap set for a jaguar. The mother had died trying to free him. “Calma. A dor vai passar.”
Xuxa A — Voz Dos Animais
Xuxa leaned on her shovel. “From whom? The loggers I reported last month? Or the rancher whose cattle are dying because he poisoned the creek?”
The tapir in question, a gentle giant named Saturnino, was currently sleeping against the back wall of the clinic, his spotted hide twitching as he dreamed. He had been found as a calf, wandering in circles near a burned clearing, his mother a patch of scorched fur and bone. Every time Xuxa tried to lead him to the forest gate, he would simply lie down and refuse to move, his long nose trembling. XUXA A VOZ DOS ANIMAIS
The word seize hung in the humid air. Xuxa looked at the IBAMA officer. “Do you know what happens in Manaus?” she asked him. Xuxa leaned on her shovel
The IBAMA officer lowered his binoculars. His face had gone pale. “She’s not doing anything,” he whispered. “They are.” Or the rancher whose cattle are dying because
“Senhora Mendes?” the bureaucrat said, not meeting her eyes. “I am Dr. Lemos from the Ministry of Agriculture. We have received a complaint.”
“Calma, pequeno,” she whispered, pressing a poultice of crushed neem and barbatimão bark against the jagged gash on a howler monkey’s flank. The monkey, no bigger than a football, whimpered. Its family had been scattered by a trap set for a jaguar. The mother had died trying to free him. “Calma. A dor vai passar.”