A monkey I met last week in Sandy Lane. Happy to pose for me, but no more; I just don't have the charisma my friend Sharon has.
Barbadians see a monkey and roll their eyes; they know their furry brethren can be a nuisance. A Yank like me sees a monkey scurrying around so adorably and thinks it’s my childhood friend Curious George.
Reading Curious George books as a kid colored forever how I regard monkeys.
My friend Sharon is a Yank, too. She also loves the monkeys in Barbados. So playful, so cute!
The problem is that they love her back. To wit, this one-minute video of a particular monkey that’s been coming up to Sharon’s home repeatedly. On this particular day she caught him on her Flip video:
Yesterday, I got a call from Sharon. Her breath was short, her words tumbled out in a rapid jumble. “Everything’s okay now,” she said, “but it’s been hairy. They came inside.”
“Who came inside?”
“The monkeys,” she said. “The whole family was inside my house.”
Sharon explains: She was in the guest room readying her home for her umpteenth guests (all of us who move to Barbados become very popular with our northern friends) when the furry guys squeezed themselves through the bars on the windows to get in. As they were breaking-and-entering, Leo the family dog was splayed out on top of the air conditioning unit in the master bedroom, snoring.
When she came out of the guest room and went into the kitchen, Sharon discovered the monkeys on the counters, taking inventory of the bananas. Panicked, Sharon ran upstairs to rouse her faithful companion and grab a Swiffer.
“The cleaning pad was off the Swiffer,” she told me. “There are two plastic prongs that stick out. My plan was to go for the eyes.”
“My gosh,” I asked, “Weren’t you scared? What if they attacked you?” I asked. I mean, monkeys are cute and all … at a distance. Hanging out in my kitchen they are way less adorable.
“Well I couldn’t very well spend the whole day locked up in the bedroom.” (Why not? I wondered.) “Anyway, I had to leave soon to pick up our visitors from the airport.”
“I had a plan in case I was attacked,” she says sensibly. “When I was still upstairs I called my husband at work. I told him to call back in ten minutes to make sure I hadn’t been mauled.”
“Good plan,” I say lamely. “So you went downstairs?”
“I sneaked down quietly. Element of surprise and all that. Leo was with me. Behind me. I wasn’t worried. I had my Swiffer.”
I’m impressed. My ancestors traveled in a covered wagon across the U.S. and homesteaded in Colorado. But the “fearless” genes were bred out of our line long ago. There’s no way I would confront a band of monkeys, I say.
“Jane, it wasn’t a band of monkeys… just a family. Including the one you think is sweet on me.”
The monkeys were in the living room when Sharon went downstairs armed with her Swiffer. One was on the piano; another three were watching the piano as though the first one would be playing it soon.
Sharon paused and took a breath.
“So what happened??” I ask.
“I ran toward them yelling shoo monkeys! and waving the Swiffer.”
“Did Leo bark at least?”
“No,” she says. “Leo was in the corner behind a drape. Anyway, the monkeys got out of there fast,” she says triumphantly.
“So how are you? I’d be totally traumatized.”
“Well, I need to wipe down all the counters.” (Such a sensible mid-Western girl Sharon is.) “Leo has come out from behind the drape and is following their scent. So I know where they went and where to clean.”
“Glad Leo could finally help,” I say. “Did the monkeys take anything?”
“No, not a thing,” she says. “And they didn’t knock anything over, either. See, Jane, they’re good monkeys. I think they were just curious.”
Yeah, see? They were Curious George!
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