In celebration of World Monkey Day, I shall share a horrifying monkey-related story.
My grandmother had a monkey-skin rug. Made from the skin of a black-and-white colobus, then purchased in Kenya in the early 1960s, it was as morally questionable as it was beautiful. As someone who prefers monkey skins on living monkeys, I’m somewhat glad I never actually saw it.
One day, while grandma was cleaning out her cupboards, she came across the rug in its bag. Morbidly curious, we asked her to bring it out and show us. So grandma brought the bag over and opened it up. All that remained of the monkey-skin rug was a pile of dust.
In honour of World Monkey Day, I shall share the only notable monkey story I know.
When my grandma was a little girl, the family had a pet monkey. My great grandfather was a merchant seaman and obtained it on one of his travels. When great-grandma was cooking the monkey watched her and soon learned how to turn the oven on.
One day, while the family was out, the monkey decided to cook itself some food and turned on the oven. When the family returned, they found the monkey dead from the oven gas.
My great uncle cradled the wee dead monkey in his arms and placed it on the sofa. To ensure nobody disturbed it, he put a sign over it, saying, “GAST MONKEY, DO NOT TOUCH”.