Ugly-Monkey and the Three Wishes

“Hey, ugly-monkey, pick that up.”      

I don’t look up. I recognize the voice, or at least the type of voice, and I am not in the mood to engage with a squirrel. I pull at my dog's leash, but he is snuffling and snorting at something he has found on the side of the walking trail.

“Asshole, I said pick it up!”

I sigh, “it’s not mine,” I look up. He is staring down at me, skittering back and forth on the bobbing branch of a pine tree. He is a typical black squirrel, but he has a bushy orange tail that flutters about behind him. He is rather cute, if a bit mouthy. The squirrel stares at me with narrowed, onyx eyes as I plead, “The can is old and rusty. I just got here, so it can’t be my mess.”

“You, some other ugly-monkey, who cares? Pick up your mess.”

I realize that there is no point in arguing and, with a sigh, I fish into my pocket to find one of the plastic bags that I carry for when Buster does his business. I wrap it around my hand like a glove and pick up the rusty soda can from under the tree. Despite my irritation, I can’t help but being impressed by this squirrel. How does he know what a monkey is? There doesn’t seem to be a specific word for “human” in the animal vocabulary, but I usually get something like “naked otter-thing” or “un-furry not-a-bear.” He must have been near a zoo at some point in his life.

“There, I got it. Now let me have my walk in peace.”

Buster, my geriatric beagle-mix, spots, or more likely smells, who I am talking to and starts to bark and pull at his leash. The squirrel scrambles away chittering, “asshole-monkey with nasty, nasty, barking dog, leaving your nasty poop and trash! Hateful, awful creatures!”

“Yeah, well nice to meet you too.”

I tug at Buster’s leash. He turns his head to me, his tongue flops from his mouth, trailing a glistening line of drool. He stares at me blankly, a self-satisfied doggy-grin on his panting face.

I can't understand Buster, or my cat, Mavis either. I asked a particularly chatty blue jay about this once, but he just said, “they already talk to you. You piss them off, they shit in your shoe. What more do you want, tall, dumb thing?”

If there’s a recurring theme among wildlife, it’s that they hate us.

I don’t know when exactly I noticed that I could understand animals. I remember coming home in tears one day when I was about six. A bullfrog had yelled at me for scooping up tadpoles in a pond. I ran inside and told me mom, “a mean frog told me to put down her fucking babies.” I got grounded for swearing.

I think this incident was my first clue that only I could hear animals. Sometimes I tried to talk about it, but all I got were pats on the head, or compliments on my imagination. When I grew a little older, I got concerned looks. I eventually realized that this wasn’t some cool trick I could show off. At best it was an aberration that no one would believe, at worst, someone might believe me, and try to pop open my brain to have a peek.  No thanks! I haven’t told anyone about my gift, if you can call it that, in a long time.

It’s not always something that is easy to hide. Animals seem to sense my ability and will appear out of nowhere to yell at me. I have been scolded for a dirty stream by a pair of beavers, yelled at by bees for my neighbour’s use of pesticides, and mocked by a fox at a rest stop because the porta potties were so smelly. It’s like I am the ambassador for the entire species, and they tend to pick the most inopportune moments to discuss their grievances.

I was best man at my buddy’s outdoor wedding. The couple had decided to release a pair of doves at the ceremony, which flew directly towards me and started demanding to know, “what the fuck is this all about?”

Animals swear a lot.

I had flapped my arms and said, “just fly away,” in a harsh whisper while all the guests laughed. The mortified bride had looked like she was about to come at me with her talons too. The birds eventually listened to me and flew off, but not before pooping on the flower girl. That friend still calls me “dove man” whenever he sees me. I have learned to avoid invitations to hikes, picnics, camping, etcetera.

Buster and I finish our walk, and the animals leave us, more or less, in peace. I can hear a porcupine sleeping in a nearby log, mumbling about pumpkins while dreaming, and a murder of crows has gathered to complain about the latest subdivision destroying prime nesting spots, but other than that, all is quiet.

In books or movies, it’s always a beautiful princess who can talk to the forest animals. She loses her golden ball then kisses a frog, or she sings a song, and the little birds fly in to sew her a dress, or the bunnies hope in and help with the dishes. I am not a princess. I’m not even a prince, and all the little woodland creatures do is cuss at me.

Buster and I walk the few short blocks from the woodland trail to our suburban home. My place, a small, nondescript, bungalow, is situated in a well-developed area, but I still encounter more animals than I would like.

A brown bunny runs across the road ahead of us and yells, “murder dogs, murder cars! Must hurry, must not die! Babies are home alone,” and I wonder if she is talking to me or just venting to herself. Buster is barking like crazy.

Buster is still barking when we reach home, but I don’t know why. The bunny is gone. I look around my small front yard, searching for whatever is attracting his attention.

Then I hear, “oh no, on no, my baby!” coming from the ditch. I spot a large raccoon; I hadn’t seen her beyond the bend in the ditch where it curves around a corner onto my neighbour’s property. She is holding what looks like a jam jar.  Buster is trying to yank my arms out of their sockets as he strains at the end of his leash. He is strong for an old boy. I drag the protesting Buster inside the house, then go back to the ditch.

“Aren’t you meant to be sleeping? It is daytime,” I ask by way of introduction.

“Can’t sleep. I have sent my other kits home to bed,” the raccoon says, “but I can’t leave my baby! Baby is stuck.”

I see a pair of little feet, some furry, chubby legs, and a ringed tail, sticking out of the opening of the jar. I worry that it has already suffocated, but then I see the tiny toes wiggle.

“Will you let me help you?”

She clutches the jar closer to her body, “big-pig creatures are cruel to us. They leave us treats in green cans, then they make angry noises when we eat them. They leave evil traps in the treats. My son is in the evil trap.”

“I won’t hurt you or your son,” I crouch down beside the ditch, without getting too close, “My hands are bigger than yours so maybe I can pull him out.”

Her dark eyes are wide with distrust and fear but she slowly hands me the jar. I try to wiggle my fingers in with the tiny creature, but the rim of the jar fits snuggly to his small hips. I contemplate breaking the glass, but I worry that I will cut the little guy. I put the jar down gently, beg the mother not to run away, then dash into my house.

I ignore Buster's frantic barks as I search the kitchen. I reject a few other potential lubricants before I decided on a bottle of olive oil.

Back outside, I get my fingertip as far into the opening as I can and smear a little of the oil around the inner rim of the jar. I put the jar between my sneakered feet, and grip the tiny legs, wiggling them back and forth, pulling gently.

Finally, with a suction-breaking pop, I fall back onto my butt, and the little body is free. He is still at first, and I fear the worse, but then he takes a shuddering, gasping breath, and gets to his wobbly feet.

The mother scoops up her kit, and between loving licks she says, “oh kind, big-pig! Hero, pig! I will never fear your kind again.”

“No!” I feel a sickly dread at the thought of this poor creature, or one of her kits, wandering up to humans and getting kicked or shot at, “no not all of us, uh, big-pigs are nice. Some are cruel. Generally, you should leave us alone.”

She looks puzzled, “why are not all the pig-things nice like this pig-thing?”

I ponder this for a moment, “because not all of us can hear you, and even fewer understand you.”

She does the raccoon equivalent of a nod, which is a barely-noticeable body twitch.

I smile and muse aloud, “if this were a fairy tale, you would grant me three wishes for saving your baby.”

I don’t really expect an answer, but after contemplating for a minute, she says, “I wish you long life, many crayfish, and that your kin learn to hear us.”

That’s not really what I meant, but I smile my thanks. I grin as I watch the mother and kit scamper away. I sincerely hope that the raccoon’s wishes come true. Well, maybe not the crayfish bit.