So long, Snooty
Beloved manatee is mourned by generations of fans who saw him as a mammoth mascot
Southwest Florida is in deep mourning after losing a legend.
Seventy-year-old men sob speaking about his death during TV interviews. A petition now calls for replacing a Confederate monument with one immortalizing the lovable hero. Protesters have taken to the streets, calling his death suspicious.
I’m talking, of course, about the sudden death of 69-year-old Snooty the manatee.
Snooty, the world’s oldest known manatee, died Sunday, less than 24 hours after his 69th birthday celebration.
South Florida Museum caretakers said the 1,300-pound sea mammal somehow made his way into an area of his habitat that’s usually blocked off. He couldn’t get out and drowned overnight. Distraught employees found him Sunday morning.
To break the news, local TV stations interrupted regularly scheduled broadcasts. Mourners left flowers and heads of Romaine lettuce (Snooty’s favorite snack) on the museum steps. Family members called one another to see how they were holding up in a Snooty-less world.
To those of us who loved the whiskered lug, that response seems completely rational.
Snooty was born at the Miami Aquarium and Tackle Company in 1948, around the same time that Manatee County, Fla., sought a manatee to celebrate the annual Hernando DeSoto Festival.
He soon became an aquatic rock star. Over his nearly seven decades, he charmed thousands of children and their parents. And by “charmed,” I mean he practically converted them to manatee worship. In 1979, he was named the county’s official mascot.
When I covered one of Snooty’s birthdays for the Sarasota Herald-Tribune, fans gushed about how hospitable and welcoming the sea cow was. “It’s his personality,” they’d say, practically swooning. “He’s just so charismatic.”
I already know what you’re thinking: There’s no way a thousandpound marine mammal can be that captivating.
You’re right, to an extent.
Although he showed scientists that manatees have nearly the same brain power as dolphins and can live well past the 10 years they usually survive in the wild, Snooty wasn’t much to watch.
Generally, he did little more than swim and munch on Romaine. Once in a while he’d do a barrel roll mid-swim, a feat that always inspired visitors to cheer.
Last year, I had the privilege of meeting and feeding Snooty. I would like to tell you it was a professional encounter during which I interviewed aquarium staff and live-streamed footage of Snooty nibbling on cabbage. In reality, my 15-minute visit consisted of about seven minutes of uninterrupted squealing. When Snooty plopped his flippers along the ledge of the tank and hoisted half his body out of the water, meeting my gaze, I spent another two minutes laugh-crying tears of joy. I loved him. My love and Southwest Florida’s love of Snooty wasn’t born from his ability or inability to do tricks. It was inspired by generations of schoolkids giggling as they watched the mammoth mascot eat a carrot. It developed after grandparents held their kids up closer to the aquarium’s edge, angling for a better view. The love spread from family member to family member, from local resident to tourist.
That’s what I’ll miss most about Snooty: his ability to bring people together. Not that Snooty would realize the impact he had on us all. He was just a manatee, after all.