"Mischief"

by Kendra Lester

Part 7 - The Season is now

The next couple of years blend in my memories as a kaleidoscopic collage of living.  A collage of love, laughter and learning. The now of our existence seemed like it could go on forever, but as we all know, bliss is but a fleeting phase in both childhood and monkeyhood. Rampageous hormones will bring on personality changes in the monkey world, that can only be described as the after phase of a bomb explosion.  Once you steel yourself for that reality, your little time bomb, will defuse itself into the proud proprietress of the most adorable little angel face ever know to man.  But thankfully these changes are gradual and allow you some adjustment time for the roller coaster ride of being a monkey parent.  I see now in retrospect, if I had some knowledgeable friends or more experience myself, I could have recognized the mounting problems sooner and maybe saved myself a few of the headaches.

Mischief had started pushing me ever so slightly, but it was never enough to make a huge issue over.  She would try and pull the legs off the hermit crabs, grunting and tugging and just being a horrible pest to the scurrying little fellows. Or she would push her bony little fingers through the cage bars and tug hardly on the multicolored feathers of the squawking parakeets and cockatiels. Even though she knew doing these things would bring an immediate scolding, she seemed intent on doing them anyway.  When I scolded, her response was to cut her eyes sideways at me and to continue what she was doing. The only way I could tell she had heard me, was by the frantic pace at which she started doing the forbidden deed.  Her activity would take on whirlwind mode until she saw me starting toward her, then she would jump up and run around the room, playing catch me if you can.  My noes were met with frenzied head shakes and unmistakable refusals.

At first I thought these more games than willfulness, but her games continued to get more physical.    Her face a study in absolute concentration, as she scrunched it up, tongue hanging from the side and quick as a flash pinching the Chihuahua until she responded in a pitiful sounding yelp. She began to swagger boldly, in that bowlegged gunfighter walk that spiders have perfected, down the hall. Like a drunken ex-husband she would slam her bony fists soundly against my son's door, a wooden kettle drum, echoing it’s distress to the world at large.  Zestfully barging into his bedroom (a place she had never been allowed before).  Chanting her nonsensical simian chatter, shrieking her indignant protests, until she made him cower in fear. From there we progressed to gentle little hair pulling and playful pinching now and then.  Then the hair pulling was not so gentle or playful, she started pulling away with long red strains clenched tightly in her furry little hands.  The pinches started leaving big blue patches, that swiftly changed to shades of black, purple and yellow, giving me the look of some kind of crazy, 60's, patchwork quilt.

Then she started standing her ground when I corrected her,  the stalwart little soldier with watchful eyes that challenged my every request. Little by little she was making her move up the ranks in the household. The littlest general, fighting the war for world domination, and  I was the only thing standing between her and the alpha position her heart so desired. But I stood my ground, correcting her immediately when she misbehaved and putting her in the cage for timeout, when she clearly wouldn't mind. 

Mischief remained an intricate part of our little world. With a great deal of shifting and changing on our part, we continued to accommodate her ever-changing personality.  One of our accommodations consisted of never going away for the weekend.  Much to my dismay I discovered not one monkey sitter listed in the phonebook.  The nearest I came to any vacation during those years, was one of the "Calgon take me away" dreams I had in the tub.  It was a wonderful, relaxing and refreshing vision of gurgling waterfall, singing birds and tropical sunshine that lasted for a whopping four or five minutes that my child and monkey allowed it to linger on, before they started screaming and demanding my attention. The next accommodation consisted of inviting few visitors to our home.  This was easier to do, since most of my "normal" friends could not for the life of them understand our living with a monkey anyway.  Others she decided for whatever reason a monkey does, that she didn't like them and thus would not tolerate them in our home. She was very adamant about this; her hair curling screams, menacing facial expressions and rampageous tantrums clearly stating her point of view. 

Then I met my future husband, a commercial pilot, rich kid who had never had to think of anything or anyone else in his entire life, but himself. A spoilt, arrogant man accustomed to fine china, velvet soft surroundings and the finer things in life.  His world was not one of handprints, pawprints, claw marks and stains.  Chaos and noise as alien to him, as finger pained walls and fast food. This prima donna man was soon to share his life with the wants, needs and expectations of a child, a monkey and the ever-varying rescue collection.  

Mischief while not excited about this new addition tolerated him.  Her toleration running more to the ignore him or the don't touch my mommy too much, kind of toleration, but toleration non-the-less.   Her pouting and clinging, possessiveness let me know she was not very happy with this new person getting any of her attention.  I tried showering her with extra attention, and tried not being too affectionate physically with him, in front of her.  In an attempt at safety and peace for all that lived within zoomania, serious infractions on her part brought about quick discipline.  She could not be allowed to think herself alpha to anyone living within, or that person's life would have become a living, breathing monkey version of hell. My diligent awareness of pending trouble and the fact that he was a very tall, foreboding man allowed her to grudgingly show some respect in regards to his position in the household. So while she cut her eyes sideways at him and spitefully pinched when she got a chance, for the most part she totally ignored him.  Ignoring in that turn your back and make no eye contact way, that monkeys have perfected.  Monkey snobbery at it's best, if she didn't look at it, it did not exist, period, end-of- story. 

Thus the year continued on; first a riot of spring flowers peeking their diminutive, lacy heads over swaying grass blades. Then the beaming smile of summer sunshine came with beckoning warmth, inviting all the world to bask and siesta under it's watchful eye. Followed by prismatic fall leaves swirled around our feet, as windy voices tickled our ears.  Chilly days chased by winter, as she screamed into sight, her icy fingers crawling up and down our spine.  And through it all, Ms. Mischief continued to change and grow, her only consistency, was her ability to ignore our newest member with gleeful vim and vigor.

Then one blustery, frigid day she casually draped her long spidery arms over my husband neck and batted her sooty lashes at him.  He jerked away and demanded to know what she was up to?  I just stuttered, completely unable to tell him anything.  I truthfully had no idea myself of what the little scamp was up to.  In my innocence, I sincerely thought she was finally warming up to him.  Over the next couple of days, she got friendlier and cozier; more dauntless in her pursuit of him, while totally ignoring me.  I was puzzled by her hussy behavior, but secretly glad she was trying so hard to be friendly with her former enemy. Until she brazeningly pushed her bottom in his face and then it dawned on me why she was acting so weird.  My naïve husband still had no idea what her game plan was. He continued to push her away and protested vigorously, that all her hugging and constant attention was getting on his nerves. He said it grossed him out to have her kissing his face and pawing on him. 

As I observed her wanton behavior, first in shock and then in relief at the now solved mystery, I started laughing, progressing into full fledged belly-laughing, tears streaming down my cheeks, and then the hiccuping started. My shocked husband wanted to know what I thought was so blasted funny? Struggling to regain my composure, all the while racking my mind for a delicate way to word the whole comedic situation, just made me laugh that much harder.  In desperation I gave up and just blurted it out, "Mischief is horny and you’re her new beau."  The appalled look on his face was priceless, a true candid camera moment.  He went from being aghast, to being disgusted, to pure anger, in a flash.   I had no idea he would freak and become so utterly disgusted by her amorous attention. In fact, I thought he would be flattered by the idea of Mischief thinking he was the consummate mate. But he was so disgusted, he was almost strangling on his words as he spit out, "why", and then "how much does she understand of what goes on between us?"  Without restraint or conscious thought, I blurted out that she most likely understood the intimate basics at least.  And with that bold statement his face paled noticeably under his pretty-boy tan. 

He was extremely quiet for the remainder of the evening.  Any questions answered with short, sharply curt replies.  His eyes obvious in their avoidance of contact with either Ms. Mischief or myself.  In fact, when I purposely tried to engage his eyes, they quickly darted away from my face.  His discomfort so apparent it was almost a palpable thing. Recognizing the need for a more delicate handling of the situation, I made no more mention of Ms. Mischief's harlot behavior. 

Then with darkness creeping around our door stoop, we heeded the last curtain call of an eventful day.  MS. Mischief headed to her sleep cage, climbing limberly onto her sleep shelf, laying her head blissfully upon her thin arms, two ebony eyes watching us soulfully, he freaked out again.  He heatedly demanded that she not be allowed to sleep in "our" bedroom, since she thought 'those kinds of thoughts!" I should of stood my ground, but in reality I thought it would all blow over in a day or two, so in the interest of peace, I carried her to her living room cage. Placed her inside, handing in her little satin baby pillow and her fuzzy blankie.  Ms. Mischief upon recognizing I meant to leave her here for the night, started shrieking, her voice an exercise in both loudness and anger. She threw herself into a complete raging tantrum, tearing about her cage like a Tasmanian Devil on speed.  This fit continued on much longer than I care to remember and that awful night, no one got much sleep.

A day or two later as I let Mischief out of her cage I noticed she was acting more hyper and restless than usual, but I chalked it up to her new sleeping arrangements. She took my hand, grasping it tightly with hers,  as we walked over to the couch.  Minutes later our whole world exploded. One minute we were sitting snuggled on the couch, the ultimate couch potatoes, watching TV, spidery monkey arms draped over my shoulders. The next minute she threw her arms straight up into the air, left out a blood-curdling scream and leaped on me with astonishing speed and agility.  Her arms, legs and tail were everywhere and she fought me like ten screaming, ripping banshees. She would no sooner land one terrifying ripping bite, and then she would reposition herself and rip her canines into another spot.  Ruby red blood was flowing freely from the numerous cuts adorning my hands, arms and legs. My blue jeans and blouse ragged victims of razor sharp teeth, torn half off my aching body.

It doesn't take much of this kind of pain and fear to kick in that old self-preservation instinct, and to start the adrenaline flowing. When that happened I no longer saw my precious baby when I looked at her, but the screaming, biting angry animal that she had become. With this point of view I was finally able to turn the attack the other direction.  I began by rolling her over and straddling her body, my knees locked on her frantically struggling shoulders and my hands pinning her arms down. She struggled, snapped and twisted like a sack full of eels.  Each time I gave into her pleading eyes and loosened my grip, she spun her head around and tried to bury her needle sharp teeth into me again.  This struggle raged on for an eternity, but in reality probably encompassed no more than mere minutes.  When her struggles started to cease and her body no longer felt like a coiled spring about to snap, I started easing the pressure.  All the while our eyes remained locked, my emerald eyes, challenging her ebony eyes and then she lowered her head and looked pitifully away.  Clearly I was the victor in this go round, but at what price?  Would this battle destroy all of my hard-earned trust? Could I trust her after this?  So many questions, so few answers?   I crawled to my feet and carried a weary Mischief to her cage.

When the adrenaline started to leave, I felt nauseated, frightened and exhausted.   I knew I needed to see a doctor and have my wounds cleaned and sown up.  But no way could I go to the hospital and try explaining the mess by body was now in. The jagged, bloody wounds were clearly the work of an animal and from the looks of them, not a very tame one either!  I took my courage in hand and I called my family doctor/long time friend and explained the situation to him.  Bless his heart he just sighed and told me to met him at his office in 15 minutes.  He cleansed and stitched my wounds, all the while shaking his head in wonder at my defense of Mischief. He wrote me a prescription for pain medicine and sent me home with a lecture about my critters.  Those stitches would be a constant reminded that for all my love and care, Mischief was still and would be forever, a wild animal and as such capable of inflicting great harm if she so chose.

My arrival home found me unhappily surveying all of the wreckage our struggle had created. I remember a few heavy sighs before beginning the cleaning process.  I tried to hurry my aching body along, because even though she had hurt me physically, I could not stand the thought of my hubby seeing the damage, and demanding I get rid of her.  In all honesty, I mulled it over in my mind as to how I could explain away the stitches and the bruises that were starting to darken my fair skin.  I guess it's funny how our love for these alien creatures cause us to go to great lengths to hide anything that might show them in a less than perfect light to the outside (nonmonkey loving) world.  Even with extensive thought, I never could come up with even a halfway believable excuse for the battlefield my body represented.  So in the end I told him the truth. He ranted and raved for hours on end. His voice a shrieking, nagging reminder of the male ego at work. Demanding, threatening and swearing his rightful views.  But it was my aching body and my misbehaving monkey, and I defended her with total, absolute conviction.  I stood fast to my belief that it was not her that attacked me that day, but her raging, screaming hormones acting out!

But my love for her could not deny the damage she had inflicted with those canines, nor could I risk the damage those canines could do my precious child. In my heart of hearts, I knew that something would have to be done about that factor.  I called our vet and explained to him what I thought I needed to do.  He concurred and set up an appointment for Friday to have her canines removed. I can not remember the exact details of what he used to medicate her. But I can tell you she tried to attack him when he started near her with the needle. So in that sterile, little room, I gently held my errant monkey child and I carefully administered the shot to take her under. I held her hand tightly as her groggy eyes peered plaintively up at me.

I can tell you the guilt never completely goes away whenever you allow pain to be inflicted on someone you love. Later whenever she looked at me with her melancholy eyes, or when she winced as she bit on something hard, my stomach rolled over in protest.  I rocked her for hours in the rocking chair, cuddling and cooing to her as I cried.  But thank goodness time heals all things and as she started eating the same old things she did before without so much as a whimper, I began the healing process inside, myself.

Did I do the right thing?  Who's to say?  I will not make excuses nor debate the right or wrong of my decision. I will say I did what I thought best for our family.  I had to protect my child and myself, and I wanted to protect Mischief from the possibility of another bad home, or even worse her life in a cage with no interaction from her family. This solution while morally questionable, was the only one at hand that would allow her to continue her life in what she thought off as her family.  Loved, cared for and cherished…  Did this rationalization lessen my mother's heart, the guilt I felt over hurting her, no.  Did it allow us to spend more years together, yes? Did the end justify the means, who knows?

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