Lately, I’ve been wanting to get a little monkey. We have a hamster, Squeeky, and I love that little hammy, but I think I also want a monkey. A small one who could travel around with me in my laptop bag or in the hoodie of a sweatshirt. A pocket monkey.
No, I don’t want another baby and this is not a red flag of a midlife bio clock implosion. I just want a little monkey who can be trained to bring me snacks and walk on my back with his little massaging monkey feet, and who will peek up at me with his big monkey eyes when someone in my vicinity says something stupid and I need to make eye contact with someone sane. My little sane monkey, I love him already. My monkey and I will have an Understanding. We will Get It. You’ll want one soon, I wager, because a little monkey has a lot to offer. When he gets strong enough, a little monkey is better than room service, because you can tip him with hazelnuts and rum.
At a recent trip to the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History, I saw several small skeletons of little monkeys, and they were posed as cute as could be, like they were taking a jaunt wearing a top hat or like little squatting children playing jacks. I hope if I get a little monkey he can learn jacks, because even though I haven’t played in years, who doesn’t love the feeling of a wicked swipe of fivesies? Huzzah!
If I can’t locate a little monkey pet, maybe I can have the next best thing. Old Fidel Castro is starting to shrink and sprout monkey face fur, isn’t he? Maybe he’ll be my little mischief monkey pet. If I can swing the paper work, I’ll get him a little sailor cap to match his shirt. Hola, little monkey Fidel! Bring my wasabi peas and a Vodka Red Bull to me here in bed and I’ll scratch your fluffy head!