So I have this monkey in my house. Right down the hall, actually. (This is not to be confused with my dog Monkey, who is a dog, not really a monkey. This is really a monkey, a marmaset (sp?) named Luce.) Luce belongs to my friend Loring, who is in Africa. Loring is one of these people who should be a one-woman show: she has the best stories of just about anybody I know. When we were in high school, she used to come to school dressed like Jackie Kennedy, pillbox hat and everything. But I digress.
Anyway, so Loring was going to Africa and asked us to monkeysit. And we said fine. But getting the monkey here was complicated: he didn’t like his travel cage, he didn’t want Loring to leave. Simply put, he was pissed. Somewhere in all the confusion, he bit my husband, who then said, to me, “Remember that movie Outbreak?” to which I replied, “Do NOT even joke about that.” Now the monkey has been here a week, but we don’t see him because he’s in one of our extra rooms with the door closed because Loring maintained he would be happier that way. Which I am sure he is. Every once in a while, though, he lets out this really high-pitched shrieking kind of whistle, which is sort of unsettling. It makes my dogs run in circles barking like crazy.
I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I mean, how often can you say there’s a monkey in your house? I feel compelled to share.
My husband only just downscaled his lizard collection, so it’s just the dogs, a few monitor lizards, and the monkey. I guess that’s progress…..