Monkey Business

In my mother’s experience, it did not go well.
Or last long.

As I have composed my narratives, I have strived to include only those that are mine—as in, written by me as experienced by me. Or, I might have someone else write their view of a story that I was part of. Regardless, I felt it important to just catalog events that I was directly involved with and not tell another’s tale. This week, I shall deviate from that norm. You see, I came across the above comic strip from the Garfield Minus Garfield website and the following story just popped into my head and wouldn’t leave. So, here is my rendition of the time my mother got a pet monkey.

It would appear that life in the ‘50s and ‘60s was a lot different than it is now. Apparently, getting a monkey for a pet was as easy as going to the grocery store. At least, that’s what I thought right after my mother said, “I had a pet monkey.” WHAT?!?!

My mother was born in Costa Rica, raised in the Panama Canal Zone, then immigrated to the United States when she was in her late teens-early twenties. I have always lived in the United States. My mother raised us so well to be Americans that I often forgot that my mother was from another country, despite all the little knick-knacks of a tropical hut, or a framed Kukulcan embroidery on the wall, or her castanets (that she could use very well), or her constant strange “…there’s no word for it in English…” complaints. Yeah, she was just another mom, like all the other kids had.

So, one day her father was headed out into the jungle to hunt jaguars or whatever else he felt like. You know, as one does. And before he left he asked my mother if she would like him to bring her back anything. Now, my mother knew her father was a capable man. He was a Ukrainian immigrant to the U.S., a member of the United States Army, and an apt hunter. She once told me of how he took her hunting with him—when she was very young—and left her in the jeep. She said that he told her to not get out for any reason. He also said that he was going to walk into the jungle on her right, then pointed out the path he would take, and return on her left side in 15 minutes. He reassured her that he would always have his eyes on her and that she would be safe. She trusted him. He had never given her reason to doubt him.

Silently he slipped into the tall grasses and was gone. She waited and waited. The familiar jungle sounds filled her ears. She watched but saw no sign of his movements along the route he had pointed out. Eventually, she began to get nervous and was about to get out of the jeep to begin searching for him, but, she remembered what he had said, “You must stay in the jeep. I can’t protect you if you leave it.”  So, she stayed. At about the time she couldn’t take it anymore, there, on her left side, just as he promised, her father emerged from the jungle just as silently as he had left. He did chastise her a little for the time she almost climbed out of the jeep. He reminded her that he had always been watching and could have shot any predator that got near her if she was in the jeep because it would be a clear target. But, if she was in the jungle, he would not be sure. He was that kind of man. She knew he could do anything.

“I want a pet monkey,” my mother replied.

“No, you don’t,” my grandfather cautioned.

“Yes, I do,” she challenged.

“You really don’t,” he knew better.

“I really do,” she did not.

“Okay.” And he went off into the jungle to hunt game and capture a monkey for his little girl.

My mother talked about how she was so excited to finally have a pet. And a monkey at that. The waiting for her father’s return was almost too much excitement to bear. She was going to have a monkey. She knew it. Her father never returned unsuccessful. He was a capable man.

The sound of the returning jeep shot electricity through her veins. She raced to the door to meet her father and the new family pet. As she flung open the entryway, there he stood, tall and proud, and cradled in his arms—just as he promised—was a captured monkey. Oh, the glee and rapture. She squealed. So did the monkey. That was the beginning of the end.

She squealed. So did the monkey as it lept out of her father’s arms and onto her. Now, monkeys come in many different sizes, and many are quite small. But, when you’re only about four years old, they’re all massive (with a surprising amount of weight behind them). And, when one jumps at you, it could knock you over. It did my mom.

My mother was on her back with a monkey on top of her, chittering and being a monkey. She screamed (because she was scared) and flung her arms about to get the monkey off of her. The monkey screamed (because it was now scared) and flung its arms about to get off her. Just before her father could get his hands on it, the little critter lept into the air, landed on nearby shelves, and in its best efforts to find shelter-safety, began to knock things off the shelves. Some things crashed to the floor, others just toppled and made more noise. Now, you have a wild animal just trying to find sanctuary in a foreign location, everything that instinct tells it to do just creates more chaos. You have a very capable human, familiar with the layout, maneuvering about in his best efforts to capture the primate. Another, smaller human, is crying and wailing on the floor. Meanwhile, a third human has now entered (the mother, my grandmother) with a broom, in order to defend her home from an intruder.

After a few short minutes of crying, clutter, and chaos, my grandfather recaptured the monkey, opened up the front door, and returned it back to nature. Before my mother could tell the ending, I imagined all the anger and frustration my grandfather was about to unleash on his daughter. Then she spoke, “Surprisingly, he didn’t get angry with me. The front room was a mess and I had to help clean it up, sure. But, he didn’t get angry. He just said, ‘Viviana, next time I tell you that you don’t want something, you need to believe me.’ And, that was it.”

So, yeah, my mother had a pet monkey, and it did not go well.
Or last long.