Yeah, Sue had issues... we tended to excuse them on the grounds that he was a white-fronted capuchin monkey, and his upbringing hadn't been the best. He'd certainly seen a lot of misfortune by the time he found his way under my care... but to the best of my knowledge, none of it at the hands of black women in wheelchairs.
Sue had been an illegal pet, private ownership of primates being banned in my state, but legal a few states over, where he was purchased as a present for a significant other. I don't know how well the gift was received when first given, but apparently the novelty wore off fairly soon. They didn't even keep their little bundle of joy long enough to bother looking between his legs. If they had, maybe they would have settled on a different name.
Sue was my first experience with a former pet primate, and unfortunately not the last. Almost all of them have been white-fronted capuchins, the monkeys that you see so often in TV and movies, regardless where the movie is taking place. They are handsome little guys, the size of cats, and like cats they look like they'd be perfect for snuggling up with. They are not. Expecting a monkey to stay small, cute, and lovable is like expecting a human child to stay as a baby or toddler instead of becoming a moody, angst-ridden teenager. Like teenagers, the capuchin will have sex hormones kicking in at some point. Unlike the teenager, the capuchin is equipped with a not-so-nice set of sharp canine teeth.
By the time Sue reached us, he had basically figured out that he wasn't a person, but couldn't come to terms with the fact that he was a monkey. Instead, he remained a frustrated little half-man (I've seen something similar with many parrots over the years, which, to be fair, are basically feathery monkeys). He could expect to live decades longer, and I wasn't sure how happy he'd be for any of those years. He was happy enough getting affection from those of us who fit his arbitrary standards, especially if we smuggled him his favorite treat (coffee creamer, which he would eagerly drink from a cup). Still, so many things upset him, we couldn't be with him all the time, and he never showed much promise at getting along with other monkeys.
Sue escaped one day, though thankfully only briefly. A volunteer was transporting him from his indoor holding to his outdoor play pen when he slipped his leash and sprinted off. I heard the call over the radio and ran to the scene, more worried that he would find an African-American or handicapped visitor and attack them than I was of his going too far. As it was, we cornered him ten minutes later. One glimpse of a coffee creamer in my palm and he was on my shoulder in a flash, cheerfully oblivious to the fuss he had caused.
Stories like this make it sound like working with Sue was fun and cute and quirky. It wasn't. It was very stressful - he went from sweet and snuggly to angry ragaholic in the blink of an eye. Keeping him out of trouble took a lot of effort and time. He had constant health problems and behavioral problems. His hygiene was appalling. No matter how much time I spent working with him, it felt like it was never enough. I looked at the other monkeys in the zoo, all living together and far less labor-intensive and (at least seemingly) far happier. Sometimes I just wanted to scream at Sue "WHY CAN'T YOU BE NORMAL!"
Then I remembered why.
Sue taught me one thing about primates - they do not make good pets. I mean, I'd heard that and been told that before, but he really taught me that. He's since passed on, but in a way I like to think I've helped him gain a little immortality. Whenever I hear a visitor say, "Oh, look at the monkeys - I want one!" you can bet I'll pop out of the woodwork immediately.
"Let me tell you about my friend Sue..."
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