State: He's a captive of affection

He's a captive of affection

Now 53, Snooty can't be released into the wild. Each year, the Manatee County celebrity enchants thousands of children.

By ALICIA CALDWELL

Now 53, Snooty can't be released into the wild. Each year, the Manatee County celebrity enchants thousands of children.

BRADENTON -- The ambassador of Manatee County isn't getting as much attention as he would like and is a bit miffed.

He snorts. Tries to catch your eye. Nudges your foot with his snout.

Snooty the manatee is accustomed to center stage, which he has occupied all 53 years of his life. Unlike other manatees, he has developed the muscle to hoist his shoulders out of his pool and demand your affection.

But then again, he's unlike other manatees in many ways. He is the main attraction in an unconventional home, a nonprofit historical museum, where 25,000 schoolchildren a year visit him. He has far surpassed the typical life expectancy of manatees in the wild -- which is 30 years -- and is thriving. Thousands of people celebrate his birthday each July as he sets the record for the oldest manatee in captivity.

Snooty -- a trademark name -- is uniquely a Florida phenomenon: a product of the state's schlocky tourist past, and a hope for the future of its endangered population of 3,300 manatees.

His early contact with humans -- he is said to have been fed from a bottle as a baby -- left him so tame that he has become, in effect, a prisoner of love. He has evolved into a poster boy for the West Indian manatee, charming visitors into taking up the cause of protecting the species.

"There certainly is a human buy-in when there is a manatee that has been as socialized as Snooty," said Patti Thompson, biologist for the Save the Manatee club, based in Maitland.

Officially, Snooty is the county's mascot. He also is a mainstay in the curriculum for Manatee County elementary schoolchildren.

"They love Snooty," said Carol Heritage, a third-grade teacher at Abel Elementary in Bradenton. "They're in awe. The kids just have one question after another."

It's difficult to deny the endearing nature of this gentle soul who craves a pat on the head as much as his romaine lettuce. But the way he came to be so dependent on people is a sad thread that runs through the history of Florida tourism.

Born in captivity at the old Miami Aquarium and Tackle Co. in 1948, "Baby Snoots," as he was called, was separated from his mother before he was a year old. While he has had male pool mates for two brief stints in recent years, he has never, um, known a female manatee.

"He's been a confirmed bachelor, mostly not by choice," said Carol Audette, his primary keeper.

The problem is that it would be cruel to release into the wild an animal as naive as Snooty, who knows nothing of the danger of boat propellers or how to find warm water in the winter, said John Reynolds, who runs a manatee research program at Sarasota's Mote Marine Laboratory and is chairman of the U.S. Marine Mammal Commission.

That naivete would be compounded by allowing Snooty to create a baby Snooty in captivity, which couldn't be released until it was mature, by then becoming tame and not learning wild ways from its parents. Supporting a population of domesticated manatees would pose its own problems both in terms of public perception, and the financial reality of buying 80 pounds of lettuce a day.

"You're talking 30 grand a year to feed one of them," said Carolyn Haworth, director of development for the South Florida Museum in Bradenton, Snooty's home.

So, except for the occasional visit from a male manatee recovering from illness, injury or other difficulties, Snooty lives alone -- an aging sea mammal, set in his ways, who thinks of people as his own.

"Unfortunately, and we don't like to say these things, but he has a real bond with people," Audette said.

From his unusual life story -- he was adopted by the museum after a 1949 visit to Bradenton for a festival -- has sprung his unique ambassadorial role.

"He does make people feel more closely allied with the animals and makes them more aware of their needs," Reynolds said. "But certainly this is not an endorsement of the idea that we ought to be slapping animals into captivity."

In 1993, the museum built a 60,000-gallon new aquarium for Snooty, an aquatic palace compared with the tank in which he lived for decades.

The old tank was a sore spot with the Save the Manatee Club, which had campaigned for years to get him out.

In the renovated facility, there are Snooty sleepovers in a room with an aquarium view, and the annual birthday party -- with a manatee "cake" of pineapple, grapes and strawberries -- that has turned into a street festival.

The museum sells Snooty merchandise, an idea that became so popular among freelancers that the museum had to take steps to protect its rights, thus the trademark on his name.

"Because he's so famous, a lot of people were using his name to sell things . . . and the museum didn't get anything," Audette said.

These days, Snooty's schedule is punctuated by routine tours of schoolchildren who squeal with joy at seeing the sea cow, but aren't allowed to touch him because their germs and skin oils could easily cause problems for Snooty.

So, he's left to his handlers for what he wants most, a little attention.

"This is what he lives for," said Audette, reaching down to pat his snout. "He'd rather have this than eat."