"Mischief"

by Kendra Lester

Part 8 - Uncle IRA

The attack became a distant memory as time paraded herself across the horizons of my life.   The fading scars the only true reminders of what had happened that eventful day.   As the days gave way to weeks, Mischief was again her sweet, lovable self.   My much wiser-self learned to recognize the signals her body gave out. To recognize the conspicuous signs she had been sending my thickheaded way.  And by allowing her the privacy she needed during these times, we managed to make it through "those days" with no more traumatic incidents.   My lessons, truths based on knowing that a monkey is not a dog or a cat, and we can not treat them as such.  We do not change them, but instead learn to adapt.  Learning to understand and respect what their posture, facial expressions and vocals mean.  We learn to listen not just with our mother's hearts, but with our heads.  Using knowledge borne of experiences, both good and bad.

The years with her leant themselves to even newer revelations. As both of us learned to look beyond the obvious, to search for meaning in things unsaid.  I began to recognize the dept of intelligence in her amber eyes.  To know she was not a  "pet", but a member of the family and as such  I begin to feel a great shame in allowing her to sit in a cage all day while I was gone to work.  A dog might be content to watch the window for his owner's return, living only to adore him. But with her I came to the realization that even with the TV on and toys galore she had to be bored out of her mind.  I began to question my right to have her at all, for I could not afford another monkey for a playmate, even if I could find one. 

Keeping this realization in mind,  I tried introducing her to a friend's baboon, thinking they could be great friends.  My understanding in monkey-etiquette and monkey-speak was so limited that I thought a monkey, was a monkey and they would love each other.  I had no idea that different species and subspecies had different vocalizations and expressions. It was a disaster from beginning to end.  As soon as Monroe walked in, Mischief began to scream at the top of her lungs.  She climbed to the top of her cage and proceeded to pelt him, his owner and myself with objects she had stored up there.  All the while standing up in her full spider stance, arms overhead and screaming.  She bombarded us, as well as nearly splitting our eardrums, until the only thing I could do was ask them to leave.  Mischief was having none of this "ugly" boy's company, after all she was a beautiful, almost refined spider and he was a squatty, oafish baboon.  She made her dislike perfectly clear to one and all, including the neighbors down the street that thought we had a monkey killing in progress.

In my selfish human way, I needed and wanted her love and in order to justify having her I had to find a way to make life better for her, or I was no better than the Neanderthals that had kept her before.  So I began to think of ways she could spend her day stimulated and alleviate some of the boredom.  I began to wrack my brain for an answer. 

Then one day I was talking with my retired, gentleman farmer uncle who lived just a piece down the road from me.   As we chatted he began to tell me about his boyhood dream to have a monkey of his own.  This little tidbit began to churn in my devious little mind.  And thus stirred I began to plot, those old wheels turning furiously.  I asked Uncle Ira if he would like to have a farm helper during the day?  At first he acted confused, until  what I was saying clicked and then excitement lit his whole face, his blue eyes just a twinkling.  All he could ask was "do you mean it, she can come and visit me?"  And with my grinning affirmation he let out a very ungentlemanly yahoo.  And thus our adventure began.

Uncle Ira started the next day, bright and early and I do mean early (farmer's hours you know),  to come to the house,  taking lessons in "monkey 101".  I started with the facts that although she didn't look like she could hurt a flea, Ms. Mischief was strong as most men, smarter than most of my friends and quicker than a bad thought.  Her teeth as sharp as razors and her temper could rival the three furies when she was mad. She sported the ability to manipulate situations to her benefit, all the while woo wooing and acting all innocent.  He sat and listened with rapt attention to all my admonishments and then he cracked a grin, "you're talking about this little gal here?"  I had to admit it didn't sound like the truth when she was sitting there all innocence in her ruffles and bows, big eyes rimmed by long lashes and those adorable, little smacking faces.  But my arms and legs sported the truth to her sheer ability to make known her anger and my inability to stop her when she decided a point needed to be highlighted.  But my 200 lb. Uncle just chuckled at the thought of this little lady doing anything to him that he couldn't control. I guess I should have been tickled at his calm acceptance of my monkey safety talk. I mean after all he was a big man used to handling tractors, horses and huge bulls, so the fact that he was not afraid of her spider attitude should not have come as a great surprise.  With him, all my lectures on what could, should, or might happen were about as useful as spitting into the wind during a tornado.  I just shut my mouth about this less than pleasant facet of living with a monkey and went on to explain her diet needs and the usual monkey care routines she expected. 

It took a while for she and he to began that process of knowing one another, excepting one another and finally liking each other.  I knew we had made a major break though when she decided one day to go straight from her cage to him, taking his hand.  Her black hand looking almost petite, nestled in his huge callused paw, Uncle Ira grinning like the Cheshire Cat.  As they walked around the room, Uncle Ira seemed like a lumbering old bear, as she drug him from one thing to the next.  In fact I could see the tiny wheels in her head already spinning, as she walked him to the refrigerator and acted like it was too hard for her to pull, knowing full well she wasn't allowed in it at all.  She almost got away with it when Uncle Ira reached around her and went to open the door for the poor baby; you know the same one that was peering around the handle almost chuckling at her naughtiness.  When I said simply "Uncle Ira she is not allowed to get into the refrigerator, as she wastes more than she eats and always chooses junk food over something healthy."  Now where had I heard that before?  Uncle Ira said, "well is she hungry or something?"  I can remember thinking great she isn't even out of my sight and he is spoiling her, the manipulative little brat…

It wasn't long before we began to take short trips to his farm.  Mischief at first clinging to me like the hounds of hell were after her.  But all these new sights, sounds and smells were just too much temptation for her.  So much so that she had to peer out from under my arm and check them out.  The first thing we tried was sitting on the tractor, not with it running, just sitting there.  Then we cranked it up while we stood on the ground, then finally we climbed on board, cranking it up, putting it in gear and away we went.   Mischief firmly between my legs, her face buried into my blouse, the wind rippling gently though her coat as my auburn hair streamed out behind us.  That day we rode the fields with Uncle Ira squatting beside us, talking softly to her as we rode.  Telling her all about the cows chickens and crops.  His contained excitement hard to resist and it wasn't long before she was trying to help me steer the thing and wooing for all she was worth as we raced over terrace rows. 

Days later it seemed like we had roamed the whole farm from one end to the other.  Exploring everything from the lush cow pastures, alive with black and white spotted cows; to the shady, glens deep in the cavernous woods, huge old oaks their branches alive with serenading birds, as tiny creatures under foot rustled around; to the gurgling streams shimmering as sunlight bounced off the backs of darting minnows and the music of dueling bull frogs rang harmoniously in our ears.   I can remember the first frog I tried to show Mischief, her outraged, indignant screams as I tried to lift it up for her to see.  Uncle Ira holding his sides as he belly laughed at the sight of this 20 lb. Monkey, her body trembling as she shook her head frantically at this tiny olive creature.   Seeing the farm through her eyes, reminded both of us of how magical a place it could be.

I think maybe Ms. Mischief with the exception of frogs, was becoming quite the farm gal, now when we arrived at the farm she went straight for the tractor shed and climbed on that old FarmAll all by herself.  In fact if I wasn't fast enough she would grab for the keys acting like she was starting it up.  In fact I told Uncle Ira he might want to take to hiding his keys or risk losing them in that mystical place that monkeys find to hide all things you need.  A place so well hidden that only they and elves know where it's located and to the dismay of many a monkey owner neither they nor the elves will talk.

Our next adventure was the chicken houses.  Huge silver houses, home to thousands of biddies clucking, chirping and cheeping.  The air full of dusty feathers and sawdust, the smell not completely unpleasant but very rich in a composty kind of way.  The first time Uncle Ira opened those doors and we entered into the squawking world of chickens Mischief wanted right back out again. I started introducing her to this world by letting her open and shut the door as many times as she needed, thus reassuring her that she was not trapped.  Then I begin to play out her leash a little and started walking away, acting for all the world like I had other things to do and expected her to follow.  And follow she did, tangling her leash all around my legs as she tried climbing me like a tree.  Once more we talked and walked and tried to show her by our own calmness that this was another place not to fear.  It wasn't long before she was trying to push the wheelbarrow as Uncle Ira placed the dead chickens inside.  Now me, I always thought this was the grosses part of the business, but she seemed to take the dead bodies in stride.  She even hung on while Uncle Ira wheeled them outside to dump them into the pit; hanging on like it was kind of carnival ride.  Each day her pleasure in the most mundane of activities opened the window into her mind, just a little more.  But I knew the real test was going to be when I had to leave her there for the day.  I looked forward to this time and dreaded it at the same time.  And to tell the truth after all of our years together I was just a little bit jealous, afraid she would love this place and Uncle Ira more than she loved me.

But I knew that my off time was almost up and she had to either sink or swim.  That first time leaving her was extremely hard, I waited until she was climbing on the feed bin inside the chicken house, totally engrossed with her image in the shinny metal.  I slipped quietly to the door, signaling to Uncle Ira that I was leaving, turned and slipped out.   I can remember one single tear sliding out before I stemmed the flow.  I felt a deep gnawing in the pit of my stomach, feeling much like the first time I slipped out and left my son with his kindergarten teacher.  

I was full of mixed emotions when I got to Uncle Ira's that evening and found her with a little straw hat on, riding around the farm with Uncle Ira.  When she didn't jump down and run to me, but finished her ride before taking his hand to climb down, I felt that first ping of jealousy.  She came to me willingly enough, but she didn't seem to have missed me much either, I guess my little girl was growing up.

The next time I picked her up, she was in the side yard, dropping chicken feed on the ground for Aunt Priss's laying hens.  Mischief took to the farm like a duck to water, like a farmer borne and bred.  Aunt Priss and Uncle Ira raising her like the little girl they never had.  In fact she took to sporting new outfits as Aunt Priss whipped them out on her old treadle machine, Mischief modeling them like a boardwalk queen.

Uncle Ira even built her a little tree house and enclosed it in wire so she could climb around outside and be safe at the same time.  I know she has more outside toys that any five kids and that didn't included Uncle Ira building her a swing set and slide.  When Aunt Priss tired of making her new clothes she began to make her rag dolls and stuffed animals, in fact I think my son wanted to go and live there too.  Just what I needed losing my monkey's love along with my son's. Ok, so that was a selfish thought, but on occasion I will admit to feeling a little green.  But Mischief still hugged me tight and sat with me on the coach all snuggled up watching TV at night.  But damn the weekends when she didn't have to go Uncle Ira's house, she could not tell days, but she sure could tell time.  She was up at the crack of dawn, pulling on the cage door, ready to go and throwing an absolute fit when I said, "no, today is not a work day."  She would pout for hours and sometimes she threw such a fit I had to call Uncle Ira and ask if he wanted to come and get her for a while, so I could get some peace and quiet.  As soon as he came in the door, she was ready to go, tugging on him and heading straight for the pickup.  Not even a backward glance for my pouting face.

For a couple of years this arrangement worked out almost seamlessly, with only an occasional tug of jealously here and there.  She had a second home where she was loved with two wonderful people she loved dearly.  They became those wonderful, over indulgent grandparents that every two-year-old dreams of. 

But nothing ever stays perfect in monkeyland, that place between childhood and wild animal reality.   I am not sure when we lost control or why, but I do know that Uncle Ira learned to trust Mischief like she was one of his own and somehow in the process he forgot she was still an animal, still subject to her body's moods and her animal needs.   But trying to understand it all after the fact became nothing more than an exercise in futility,  Anyway one day in the middle of summer, he stepped inside the house for a drink of ice water, now normally she would come in with him or at least be taken to her outside play area.  But she was being stubborn and it was only for mere minutes, so he allowed her to stay out on the porch and play.  One single time, one tiny mistake and one near tragedy.  In the few minutes it took him to walk into the house and run his water, the State Farm insurance woman came premium collecting.  Mischief was siting on the wooden rail around the porch and either she didn't see her or she thought it was some cute decoration perched there, either way Mischief must have just started into her cycle, and was feeling very temperamental, cause she launched herself off the rail and onto her back.  20 lbs. of blind, screaming PMS clinging to her back like a cocklebur.  The poor woman had no idea what had happened or what the devil was biting her back and upper arms, and in her fright added her own screams to the ruckus going on.  Uncle Ira heard the ear splitting screams and ran as fast as his old body could outside.  Grabbing Mischief from behind, yanking her leash at the same time, removing the little banshee from the woman's back, but not before a couple of nicely gushing bites were inflicted. 

Now granted this was back in the day before everyone got monkey-phobia from all the nasty news reports, and before the world became a sue happy place, back in the day when your insurance person was your neighbor and had to face you in church on each and every Sunday.   So although the bites required a trip to the hospital and later to her doctor, in house quarantine for Mischief, the payment of all medical bills, and the vet's assurance that Mischief was healthy and not harboring any life threatening diseases, nothing else was required of us.  But Uncle Ira was not so lucky, his homeowner's insurance gave him the choice of losing his insurance or not allowing Ms. Mischief on his property anymore. Now a farmer can not exist without insurance and not many companies back then insured chicken farmers against Mother Nature and her pending disasters.  So in reality, there were no real choices offered.  The plain truth was she could not stay there, anymore, period, end of story.  So with a ton of tears we all agreed that to keep her and him out of any more hot water she would not return to Uncle Ira's.  For a time he and Aunt Priss still came to see her, but she whimpered and cried so pitifully to go with him, that those visits became too painful for all of us and had to be discontinued.

Uncle Ira did send her, the little straw hat, her overalls, the dresses made by Aunt Priss, the dolls, stuffies, and all of her outside toys and just for good measure he bought her one of those green John Deer pedal tractors, just her size.  She loved her toys and I loved him for trying to make it better for her.  But over the next few months, Mischief seemed to slow down, dragging around listlessly.  She became more withdrawn and extremely depressed. Every day she would go to the window and woowoo at the outside clearly wanting to go visit them. I tried to take her driving but even those trips became nothing more than power struggles, if we turned the wrong direction, she threw a fit and if to please her I turned the right direction, but drove on by their house, she threw one anyway.  It was distressing having  her little face pressed against the windrow, all mashed up and looking for all the world, like the last little puppy in the pet store as people walked by him.  Her face a study in pain as we continued on down the road, and when she realized we were not stopping she began to scream in rage and bite me and her herself in frustration.    The pain both of us encountered was so intense that even the rides had to stop. 

Without their visits and without the rides by their house, Mischief soon settled down and seemed to forget Uncle Ira for the most part. But every time she heard a car door slam outside she raced to the window, tugging the curtains aside and with total concentration looking their faces over, as soon as she decided it wasn't him she turned away, back ridged as she ignored whomever came in.

Nothing seemed to hold her attention for long and she would sit for hours in my lap, her arms around me and face buried on my chest.  A lost little girl abandoned once more by someone she loved.  It seemed that even when I tried to do something good for her I ended up just making her more miserable.  I had only wanted her to have company and something interesting to do during the day, but once again I did not take into account the very nature of a monkey.  The territorial attitude they have or the nature of procreation. 

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