Cahuita was my favorite stop in Costa Rica: a sleepy seaside village with a beautiful beach and an impressive drumming troupe. One night was little different though. I noticed a pack of excited dogs down one dirt track, likely attacking another dog. I hurled some rocks and walked over to see. The pack scattered, leaving the victim in the grass, a seemingly small mound of brown fur. I called to her, hoping she would scatter too but she just shifted so very slowly. I turned to leave, angry and frustrated that I could do little for this helpless lump; the dogs would return and kill her. But I couldn't sanction that scene. Closer this time, the fur took shape: one bent leg, a paw and a few long, curved claws. Son of a bitch, this was sloth.
What the hell? Now what? Would any anyone here care enough to help? I left Miranda on guard and came back with the local police. One young cop was impressive: he lifted the animal, checking her for wounds. Terrified, in pain and exhausted, the sloth's mouth gaped open and her brown eyes glared back at us. Her face was so unusual, hairless, soft and wrinkled, with a long rounded snout. A few phone calls and some anxious waiting: a local sloth sanctuary would take delivery of our jungle girl. The same young cop lifted her into the pick-up, her long body stretched to the ground. Off they drove.She was, in fact, a very young female Choloepus: a two-fingered sloth.
She died on route.
Footage of two younger versions at the Aviarios sanctuary is here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9_1t51c-d4Y
