People are nuts and they make their pets nuts, especially when they insist on acting as if their animals are human. Here on the East Coast, we had the latest illustration of PetLoveGoneMad when a Connecticut chimpanzee named Travis went berserk and nearly killed his owner’s friend.
Travis the Chimp was apparently something of a local celebrity. He had previously appeared in television commercials for Old Navy and Coca Cola, to say nothing of the fact that he was a monkey living in a suburban house for fifteen years being treated like a son. I don’t know whose teenage son that would be who gets fed filet mignon and wine in stemmed glasses, but these are the media reports feeding the current circus, and I can see my own Son filing abuse charges against me once he remembers his reward for school excellence was Burger King.
Even if the news reports are overblown, and the widowed owner did not share her bed and bath with Travis, the horrific attack by a domesticated wild animal against a human invited to the home should wake up legislators. Surrounding homeowners and local school children deserve safety in their everyday lives, and shouldn’t have to consider that the street they’re walking on may house a 14-foot boa constrictor, baby alligator (oh! he’s so cute!), tarantula farm or imported ocelot. Don’t we have our hands full enough with pit bulls on weak leashes?
Everyone has memories of friends with funky pets, and they do add color to one’s childhood recollections. When we moved from the Brooklyn housing projects to the country when I was in grade school, I remember entering the house of one especially rural new friend, and noticing their TV set was oddly different from ours. It was the same 19″ mahogany box with a thick glass screen, but instead of picture tubes inside it, they had a squirrel.
It scampered all around the inside of the wooden box that was furnished with tree branches and little rocks. It scaled the walls and ceiling of its cramped home, pressing its face against the glass while it clawed at the world just outside its reach. I was fascinated and terrified at the same time. This was a faraway universe from the Brooklyn apartment building I had lived in all my life. The wildest creature you would see in the project back then was your friend’s father scratching his butt on the way to the bathroom in his boxers and wife-beater.
Later, in my twenties, I visited someone who had a pet I had not been told about. When I went to look out the window and admire the view, my hand brushed against something as I pushed aside the curtain. A six-inch gecko raced across the glass in front of me, disturbed from his resting place. I may have wet my pants. I’m not sure. I’ve blocked it out.
Back to the country, there was one occasion when I walked the long mile to my rural friend’s house, only to have her slip out the front door and close it quickly behind her. She said we’d have to play outside that day. I asked if the squirrel had gotten out of its TV again and was running wild. She shook her head no, sadly, and said, “My stepfather.” That’s when I found out wife beater wasn’t just an undershirt.
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