For Pet's Sake Column

It’s all Captain Kangaroo’s fault. Because of the round-faced, mustachioed man who donned a cap and jacket with oversized pockets every morning for his popular television show, I have a one-inch scar in the crook of my right elbow.

Let me explain.

Bob Keeshan (a.k.a. Captain Kangaroo), the grandfatherly host of the longest-running children’s television show of all time (1955-1984), often shared the spotlight with a wide assortment of guests—both two- and four-legged. I cracked up at Mr. Green Jeans and the mischievous Mr. Moose, but I really went bananas over one particular TV personality: a baby monkey who paraded across the stage in pink frilly dresses, denim overalls, and diapers. Watching that little gal as she wrapped her long arms around the Captain’s neck and snuggled close, I began having grand visions of cuddling with my very own chimp. I’d dress her in cute clothes and carry her around like a baby. I hadn’t quite worked out that whole diaper duty part in my head, but that was a small detail in the scheme of things, right? I would soon learn that I had bigger things to worry about.

Growing up, my father indulged my insatiable love of animals by bringing home every kind of creature imaginable: cats, chickens, dogs, fish, hamsters, parakeets and the occasional chinchilla graced our yard and our home throughout my childhood. I think I even had a pet snail at one time, but then I ate him (give me a break, I was only 2!) And then there was Pancha. The little spider monkey had fur the color of milk chocolate and eyes rimmed with black fur that made her look like she had two big ol’ shiners. The first time I saw her, she was playing in her “family’s” backyard, trailing a long, thick chain behind her. The family had decided to sell their pet and my dad and I were more than happy to take her off their hands, much to my mom’s chagrin. I don’t remember the asking price, but I do remember that we went home that afternoon with a monkey on our backs. Literally.

Things went well at first. Pancha seemed quite tame and she enjoyed sitting in my lap as she slowly peeled a banana and ate it. Still, she was tethered to a long chain and there she sat, day after long day, in our avocado tree. Oh, how she must have hated that confinement! What must she have been thinking?

When I look back with the eyes of an adult, I see how incredibly cruel it was to try and make a domestic pet out of a wild animal. Oh sure, we played with her and gave her food and treats. But that couldn’t begin to make up for what she had lost. This wasn’t her real home, after all; we weren’t her real family. That had all been taken away from her when she was snatched from the South American jungle as an infant and smuggled into the United States.

One day, I decided that it was time to show off my new pet, so I gathered up her chain and set out for a walk in the neighborhood. We couldn’t have taken more than 10 steps when Pancha let out a primordial shriek, whirled around, and bit me. Hard. I realize now that the poor animal was probably terrified. I, too, was petrified. Blood was streaming down my arm and spilling onto the sidewalk, where it commingled with my tears. Neighbors poked their heads out of their houses to see what all the commotion was about. My dad ran out, scooped us both up, and raced back home. I think he was frightened too. Once Pancha settled down and my mom had bandaged my arm, my parents made a call to Animal Control. It wasn’t long before a big white truck arrived to whisk away my furry friend. The officials said something about “quarantine.” As Pancha sat hunched in the cold, metal cage, our eyes met—the primate and the preschooler—and in that moment, I realized that we should never have forced Pancha into being a pet.

I never knew what happened to my little spider monkey and to this day, I get pangs of guilt about abandoning her the way we did. I like to believe she was returned to her native land, where she spent her days swinging from trees with her quadrupedal kin and foraging for food, but I know I’m kidding myself. More than likely, she ended up at a zoo or in an animal research laboratory. Perhaps she was euthanized. I hope she didn’t suffer.

The scar on my arm has slowly faded over the years, but my memories of the little monkey who used to grasp my tiny hands in her black leathery paws are still vivid and will remain with me always. And the lesson I learned from her will never disappear: she taught me that humans should never monkey around with wild animals.

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These days, Karen only shares her heart and her home with domestic animals. Let her know about your pets by sending an email message to her at karenleestevens@cox.net.