Little Rhesus Girl

My phone rang at 3 a.m., and I awoke from a deep slumber with a beating heart. Who died or was injured? In the dim light, I stumbled. “Hello?”

The other end’s voice sounded broken and harsh. I knew she was sobbing, but I had no clue who she was. “Are you the lady who assists monkeys?” she inquired. I attempted to wake up and arrange my thoughts since I receive a lot of calls from new monkey parents who are concerned when their baby coughs or develops hiccups. When I initially got one in 1969, no one wanted to speak to me or answer my foolish inquiries. As a result, I’ve always tried to be kind and patient with the new owners. They already had the monkey; why not attempt to offer them some sound advice?

She went on with her difficulty. “I have a seven-year-old Rhesus female who is extremely ill, and I need to find her a home.” “What’s the matter with her?” I inquired. She said that she had no idea; maybe she was simply sad since she had been forced to live in her garden shed for many months. She told me she had been coming to the shed as frequently as she could after work, attempting to feed her a bottle, but she was refusing to eat lately. She hasn’t been out of bed in three days.

I inquired whether she had consulted a veterinarian. “No, my husband will not spend any more money on her and wants to euthanize her.” I was completely awake now, smoking a cigarette and trying to make sense of it all. I took a big breath. “How may I assist you?”

“Just take her and take care of her, I love her and it would kill me to give her up, but it’s not fair to make her remain in that shed!” she screamed. I said I’d take her, but she required emergency medical attention. But could I have her right now? Could she perish?

We discussed how to get her to me. I raced names through my head: who might I contact for assistance? However, few people desire to assist with Macaques. I informed the lady, who had blocked her phone number and refused to tell me her name, that I’d meet her halfway. That would be in New Orleans, Louisiana. I also told her we had to do it right away. She concurred.

While I was still chatting to her, I began dressed. My thoughts returned to my breeding days, and I attempted to recall whether I had sold a Rhesus kid seven years ago. She couldn’t possibly be one of mine. Thank you, God.

“Do you want me to change her diaper?” No, I answered, that wasn’t required. Then she said that it will remain on since she had her tail removed to make the diapers fit better. My heart fell; I’d heard about this procedure but had never witnessed it for myself. When you’ve never seen it, it’s simple to believe it doesn’t happen. I told her that a diaper-less monkey was just acceptable. I gave her two phone numbers and was on my way in an hour. In the dim light, I began to wonder whether this was a joke. But I could hear the screams and they sounded genuine, so I continued on my way. I was driving for a few hours when she phoned again.
The sun was brilliant, and I’d traveled at least 150 miles. I stopped for petrol and six pedilite bottles. She seemed more in command now, and I assumed she had altered her mind. But she had a falling out with her spouse and was unable to make the trip. I pulled off on the side of the highway. I made every effort not to show my rage. My rage was directed at her treatment of the monkey she professed to love as much as she did her daughter, and my rage was directed at her for allowing me to go this far before calling. She’d phone her closest friend and ask if she wanted to meet me. I drove to the next rest stop and pulled off. I looked through my address book for a vet in New Orleans and found two. She finally returned my call. Her buddy was going to meet me. She was putting together a diaper bag with of bottles and baby snacks. “She’ll only eat peaches.” I inquired about solid meals. No, she hasn’t had teeth since she was three years old and still drinks formula. I sighed… a toothless, tailless monkey that hadn’t eaten in three days….now four

I kept driving till I arrived in New Orleans for the night. I checked into the hotel, exhausted. But I couldn’t fall asleep. She phoned again the next morning. Her pal was present. She wasn’t sure whether she was making the proper decision. I kept my cool, aiming to persuade her that removing the monkey was a beautiful thing she was doing. I inquired whether the shed was air-conditioned or had windows, and she said neither, but she put the crate facing the entrance, which was cracked.

I walked downstairs to meet the friend and her adolescent daughter. They didn’t appear to care about anything. They unlocked the rear hatch, and I peeked inside the container, unsure if the monkey was dead or alive. Her weak breathing was the sole indication that she was alive. Otherwise, she remained still. I stared at her hands since she seemed to be looking at them. Her fingertips were completely bare. I approached the lady and inquired as to what had happened to her fingers. “Oh, she went into this scratchin’ period, and her husband forced her get them removed so she couldn’t scratch,” she said. She was telling me how she could still pinch pretty hard as I took the container from the back of her vehicle.

I loaded her into my SUV and attempted to gather information from the lady about who the vet was that did this, but she refused. I left.

I phoned numerous veterinarians in the New Orleans region, but no one would see a new patient, a Macaque. Everyone had an excuse. I eventually acquired a health certificate from a horse DVM who didn’t even peek in the container. I sped back to Florida, pausing only for petrol and to attempt to give the primate pedilite drops. She refused, clenching her teeth together to ensure that no drop went into her mouth.

She spent over a week in Florida. Her spinal damage had been serious due to the amputation of her tail. My veterinarian told me that she had a thorough hysterectomy not long ago. However, the cause of death was essentially because she did not want to live.

I sobbed over her dead corpse, trying to convince her that it was all done and that she was safe now. I pleaded with her not to die. But she never even gave me a glance. Sue, a lady, pledged to dedicate her life to making her comfortable. However, it was too late for her. I buried her on the south side of my facility and left a rock as a memorial. A reminder to me of why I am hardened and cold towards many private owners. When I need to find the fortitude to continue fighting for the primates, all I have to do is look in that direction and see that stone. I was naive because I assumed the folks I marketed to enjoyed the same things I did. Because I adore nonhuman primates, I need them in my life. Some people adore them because they need them.

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