When the Bristol Zoo Gardens closed its gates in September 2022, nearly two centuries after opening in 1836, it had more than 25,000 animals to move. Penguins and meerkats went to new homes in Spain and the United States. Flamingos rode out in padded vans, and the Aldabra giant tortoises left in custom wooden crates. Eight western lowland gorillas stayed right where they were.
Moving sensitive, social great apes twice was judged too stressful, so the zoo decided to build their new habitat first. The public had no idea until an urban explorer, one of the people who wander through abandoned buildings, broke into the shuttered grounds and filmed a gorilla tapping on the glass. The British press called them the "world's loneliest gorillas." The zoo's director, Sarah Gedman, pushed back: the gorillas are as well cared for now as they will be in a new home four times larger, and they don't need crowds, because they're "gorillas not stand-up comedians." The break-ins were only scaring them, and now the gorillas get locked indoors at night for their own safety.
When the zoo shuts down
Zoos do close, and so do marine parks, game farms and sanctuaries. With more than 10,000 zoos worldwide, some are bound to fail. The ones that make the news are usually small roadside operations, like the one Joe Exotic ran for more than 20 years before he went to federal prison for a murder-for-hire plot against his big cat rival. Seven months later, the US Department of Agriculture suspended his zoo's license. Inspectors had found starving animals, big cats missing with no record of where they went, and a lion cub in such critical condition that the inspection stopped so the cub could get to a vet.
Animals slip out of roadside and commercial zoos far more often than anyone would like: a capuchin monkey on the phone lines north of Charlotte, a chimpanzee named Cha-Cha swinging across power lines in Japan for nearly two hours, a herd of goats vaulting the petting zoo barriers at Ohio's Cedar Point.
Gas, snacks and a bear
Post-war America was a country newly on wheels, and families hit the highway in numbers nobody had seen before. Roadside motels sprang up, and roadside zoos followed. A few already existed, like the bear den on US-27 in Harrison, Michigan, run since the 1930s by John "spike horn" Meyer, a vision in buckskin. There were no cages. Visitors walked among his black bears, feeding them popcorn and orange soda in glass bottles, and a sign promised the "Only bear den in the world where visitors are allowed to shake hands with a bear." Bites, scratches and a little girl dragged through a fence were treated as part of the experience. Michigan didn't pass a law regulating wild animal exhibits until 2012.
Most of these places were grim: a big sign on the highway, then a dusty lot with a sickly monkey or a scabby alligator. In Fargo, North Dakota, Mrs. Margaret Rock "collects bears like people collect stray cats and dogs," serving her six bears cornmeal mush every morning and root beer the rest of the day.
Then there was Bob Lehman, who opened a free zoo at his service station on Highway 80 in Kennedy, Texas, in 1950. He kept four lions, raccoons, bobcats and a pencil-stealing raven named Pablo. The baby lion shared the house with Lehman's family and Sir Sidney, a one-year-old chimpanzee who mostly raised the cub. Lehman told the El Paso Times that when his toddler tried to run the chimp over with a toy car, Sir Sidney "would lecture the child in monkey language" and then retreat to the couch. Lehman charged nothing, kept only a coin box for the feed bill, and never had a sick animal.
For decades, America let almost anyone with a highway sign keep lions, bears and cobras, and some of these roadside zoos were fronts for back-room gambling. What finally made the public care was a Netflix series about Joe Exotic.
Dice in the back room
Not everyone was selling gasoline. In 1950, Florida's game commissioner Cecil Webb required permits for animal exhibits, vowing to personally shut down what he called a "vicious racket." The setup was simple: "the typical roadside zoo has a wild animal exhibit out front and a gambling room in the rear," with dice, roulette wheels and shell games, and some tourists lost as much as a thousand dollars. States from Idaho to the Carolinas had the same problem. Even Utah busted a couple of zoo operators.
And the animals didn't stay put. A caged bear in Manistique, Michigan, mauled a 62-year-old attendant until a tavern owner beat it back with a shovel. In Marysville, Washington, a drunk zoo operator chased two state troopers with a six-foot rattlesnake. In 1958, Florida congressman Syd Herlong tried to ban imported cobras, warning that "a cobra just kills for the hell of it." When skeptics asked how one would ever escape, he pointed out that a rhinoceros had just broken out of a roadside zoo in his district. The Burmese pythons now breeding in the Everglades suggest he had a point. In Gibsonton, Florida, a 210-pound python killed its keeper, Alfred Henley. His widow was puzzled, since the snake had never killed anyone before.
The shabbiness on display
By 1969, only 15 states regulated roadside zoos, and the public had started to see the patchy fur, the crusted eyes and the big cats pacing in cages. One Georgia man left his wife and his five backyard baboons, who spent the winter outside and lost most of their fingers to frostbite. Interior Secretary Stewart Udall drafted a model law, declaring that "such treatment must not be tolerated." The Animal Welfare Act of 1965 set federal standards on paper, but states made the real rules, and some operators simply gambled on not getting caught.
What finally got people to pay attention was Tiger King, which premiered on March 20, 2020. More than 34 million people watched within ten days. Still, the problem hasn't gone away: at a Florida gas station, small, dried-out alligators still sit under fluorescent lights between the coconut patties and the tie-dyed T-shirts.
In 2025, the photographer Seph Lawless flew a drone over Marineland of Antibes, a French marine park that closed after France banned orca performances. Inside, a mother orca and her son drifted in stagnant water, then began to perform for the drone. The video went viral, and French authorities now want Lawless arrested for trespassing. They banned the shows to protect the orcas, then left the whales behind in an empty park.
