When I was but a wee lass, my family lived for a time on the island of St. Kitts, a magical place bordered by the Atlantic Ocean and the Caribbean Sea. It was a dream-like time and I could probably write a book about that time but one story has been retold again and again by my family – the story of the day a monkey came to visit.
Once upon a time, on the isle of St. Kitts, I woke up bright and early to discover a monkey outside the kitchen window. All morning my family and I stared out the window at him, fascinated by his monkeyness and speculating as to where he came from. Did he escape from a circus? Was he some rich dude’s pet? Did he simply decide to take a break from the jungle and visit some humans? We didn’t know but he sure was cute. Although my mom was slightly perturbed when he started playing with his thingie. Probably because there were innocent children present. But my brother and I found it goshdarn hilarious.
As the morning passed, we all formed a bond with the little monkey, we were amused by his presence and I like to think that he found us equally amusing. Eventually we were brave enough to go outside and toss bits of bread at him. We were totally buds. The monkey enjoyed the bread bits so much that he decided to stick around. I was pretty happy, I had visions of dressing the monkey up in my doll’s clothes, having tea parties with him, teaching him tricks, and becoming the coolest gal on the block. My dreams were shattered when, later in the afternoon, my mom caught the creature peeing on the porch. “SHOO!” She yelled, flapping her hands wildly.
The monkey flipped out. He was probably thinking “how dare you interrupt my pleasant porch peeing session you filthy human!” He flew towards my mother, teeth bared, hands out like some deranged creature from the pits of hell. My mom managed to slap the porch door at the last second and the monkey ricocheted harmlessly off the glass. We all huddled in terror in the living room, trapped inside by the still raging monkey jumping around outside. I don’t know how long we waited. Every once in awhile my mom would twitch the curtains to see if the beast was still out there. It would send him back into a range. Eventually, towards the evening, he finally left but our trust of monkeys had been forever shaken. Moral of the story: don’t give bread to monkeys because they will pee on your porch.