Already Nash was showing the resilience that has carried her through it all. The hands failed to thrive, but the face transplant was a success. She has an aide to help her Monday through Friday, but manages on her own on the weekends — which is very important to her. And as far as help—I have just what I need. Send the police with a gun—with a gun—hurry up! Please hurry up! Why do you need somebody there? Please, God!
He ripped her apart! Hurry up! What is the monkey doing? Tell me what the monkey is doing. They got to shoot him! Where are they?
It went on for twelve minutes. When the authorities finally arrived, they saw a body lying mostly naked on the ground, lifeless and covered in nearly half its blood supply. Travis was roaming the property. He made his way to the police car. He tried the door.
It opened. The officer lurched. He struggled to remove his gun from its holster. His body became wedged against the center-console computer. Travis stared into the car, baring his blood-streaked teeth. In one swift motion the officer at last released his gun and fired four rounds. Travis staggered backward, screeched, defecated, and ran off. The officer got out of his car. Huge chunks of scalp and fingers lay scattered around the yard.
He walked slowly to the body. With the stump of what remained of her arm, Charla Nash reached for his leg. As another group of officers set out into the woods to look for him, Travis scampered unnoticed into the house. Leaving a trail of blood, he knuckle-walked through the kitchen, the bedroom, and into his room.
Then he grasped his bedpost, heaved forward, and died. Travis had bitten or torn away her eyelids, nose, jaw, lips, and most of her scalp. And yet she did not die. Three days after the attack, in critical condition, Charla was flown by specialized jet from Stamford to the Cleveland Clinic.
Fifteen months of intervention followed. Sandy was alone. After weeks of blistering coverage, journalists from around the world—who, hoping to coax Sandy out of the house, had left her flowers, coffee, and sympathy notes—had finally moved on.
The reporting had included many inaccuracies, such as the unsubstantiated assertion which Sandy never disputed that Travis was the same chimpanzee who had appeared in the iconic Old Navy ads of the nineties and on The Maury Povich Show.
For a long time, inside her house, she refused to clean up his blood. She sat a gigantic stuffed chimpanzee in the leather chair in his room.
She tried to reconstitute her life. She visited occasionally with friends, and made trips to the casino. She continued shopping—much of it for clothes for her three grandchildren that she would end up never sending—until her house became impassable. She talked—and cried—on the phone incessantly; the subject was almost exclusively Travis.
In the end, all that was really left for Sandy were animals. She put bowls outside for the raccoons. She fed deer in the yard from her hands. And she found another chimpanzee. His name was Chance. She knew she could never bring him back to Connecticut, so she contributed money to a friend out of state, and the two women were to assume a kind of joint custody. Chance, about a year old, stretched his young, long body out across her lap. Sandy tickled his belly. He climbed all over her.
The two of them snuggled and played. Back in Connecticut one day last summer, shortly before sunset, Sandy was alone, outside, feeding the animals. She looked up. She found her camera, held it up, and clicked. Sometime later, her chest began hurting. The pain came on quickly and intensified.
Frightened, she called a friend, who drove over to her house to sit with her. A hot bath provided no relief. The friend called She put Sandy in her car, in her pink bathrobe and slippers, and drove her down Rock Rimmon Road, to meet the ambulance on its way. She was prepared for emergency surgery. And then they were all gone. All the Herolds were dead. Last May, Charla Nash was transferred to a long-term assisted-living facility outside Boston.
The innumerable cosmetic surgeries she has undergone have accomplished little cosmetically. On her 56th birthday, nine months after the attack, in what will undoubtedly go down as one of the most extraordinary moments in television history, she revealed her face—a bulbous surface of transmogrified skin—to Oprah Winfrey; she told Winfrey she remembers nothing from the attack and is disinclined to worry about how others see her.
Her daughter is in her freshman year of college. Two-forty-one Rock Rimmon Road remains almost exactly as it was the day Sandy left, held in limbo by order of the court.
The gigantic addition is frozen in mid-construction, exactly as it had been that February day, its windows still glassless, so that leaves and small drifts of snow blot its unfinished floor. A few miles away is a cemetery that has no tombstones. A plot there belongs to the Herolds. Beside Jerry, inside a sealed vault inside a sealed coffin, Sandy Herold wears an animal-print shirt and tight jeans distressed from ankle to hip.
Her fingernails are painted pink, and her hands rest atop her abdomen. Against her one side stands an urn containing the ashen remains of her daughter Suzan.
Already a subscriber? Chimp attack woman relates ordeal. French claim full face transplant. Brigham and Women's Hospital. Doctors who operated on Charla Nash said she was "a courageous, strong person". Hands turned septic. Published 9 May Published 26 July He tore off her nose, ears and hands, and blinded her as his owner, Sandra Herold, frantically beat him, stabbed him and called the police.
When they arrived at her home in Connecticut, they shot Travis dead. While this particular case is not related to the work of the Nonhuman Rights Project, it gives distressing insight into the world of chimpanzee ownership and the tragic, long-term consequences when something goes wrong — as it so often does. As such, it offers some poignant background to our work in arguing that other chimpanzees have a fundamental right to bodily liberty — i.
Suzy had spent most of her life at a zoo. Coco and Suzy remained in Missouri, but escaped in They ran to a nearby housing development and lunged at a car full of teenage boys who were pulling into their driveway.
One of the boys pulled out a shotgun and killed Suzy. Coco was recaptured. A similar fate befell another pair of chimpanzees, Buddy and C. A police officer killed Buddy, and C. That same week, in Germany, five chimpanzees escaped at the Hanover Zoo and went wandering around while 2, terrified human visitors were evacuated.
Both stories are here. Travis still slept in her bed, ate lobster at the table, drank from a long-stem wine glass, and behaved in other quasi-human ways that fulfilled her fantasies.
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