A monkey breeder reminisces
By Christine J. Camp

Little Rhesus Girl

3 a.m.: My phone rang and I jumped up from a sound sleep with a racing heart. Who died or had an accident? I fumbled in the darkness. "Hello?"

The voice on the other end was cracked and raspy. I could tell she was crying but had no idea who she was. "Are you the woman who helps monkeys?" she asked. I tried to wake up and get my mind organized as I do get many calls from new monkey moms who worry when the infant coughs or gets hiccups. I remember when I bought my first one in 1969 and no one wanted to talk to me and answer my stupid questions. So I have always tried to be congenial and patient with the new owners. They already had the monkey; why not at least try to give them good advice?

She continued with her problem. "I have a seven year old Rhesus girl that is very sick and I need to place her somewhere." "What's wrong with her?" I asked. She stated she really didn't know; possibly she was just depressed because she was forced to live in her garden shed for the last several months. She told me she had been going to the shed, trying to give her a bottle as often as possible after work, but she was refusing to eat now. It has been three days and she won't even get up.

I asked her if she had contacted a vet. "No, my husband refuses to spend any more money on her and he just wants to euthanase her." I was wide awake now, smoking a cigarette and trying to make some sense of all this. I inhaled deeply. "What can I do to help you?"

She sobbed louder and wailed, "Just take her and take care of her, I love her and it will kill me to give her up, but it's not fair to make her stay in that shed!" I said I would take her, but she needed immediate vet care. But could I take her now? Could she die?

We talked about how to get her to me. I ran names through my mind: Whom could I ask to help? But few want to help with Macaques. I told the woman -- who had blocked her phone number and not told me her name -- that I would meet her half-way. That would be about in New Orleans, La. I also told her we needed to do this now. She agreed.

I started dressing while I was still talking to her. My mind raced back to my breeding days and I tried to remember if I had sold a Rhesus baby seven years ago. No, she couldn't be one of mine. Thank God.

"Do you want me to put a diaper on her?" I said no, that wasn't necessary. Then she told me it would stay on as she had her tail removed so the diapers fit better. My heart sank; I had heard of this practice but had never actually seen it with my own eyes. It was easy to pretend it doesn't really happen when you have never seen it. I assured her a diaper-less monkey was fine. I gave her two cell phone numbers and was in my car within the hour. In the darkness I started thinking: This could be a prank. But I could hear the cries and they seemed real, so I kept going. I drove for a few hours before she called again.
The sun was shining; I had come at least 150 miles. Stopped for gas and six bottles of pedilite. She was more in control now and I thought she had changed her mind. But she had fought with her husband and she could not make the trip. I pulled over to the side of the interstate. I tried hard not to show my anger. My anger for her abuse toward this monkey she claimed to love as much as she loved her daughter and my anger for letting me get this far on the road before calling. She would call her best friend and see if she would meet me. I drove to the next rest area and stopped. I thumbed through my address book looking for a vet in New Orleans and found two. Finally she called back. Her friend would meet me. She was packing a diaper bag with bottles and baby food. "Peaches is all she will eat." I asked her about solid foods. No, she has had no teeth since age three, and still drinks formula. I sighed…a toothless, tail-less monkey who had not eaten in three days….now four.

I continued to drive and finally stopped in New Orleans for the night. Exhausted, I checked into the motel. But I couldn't sleep. She called again early the next morning. Her friend was there. She was unsure if she was doing the right thing. I controlled myself, determined to convince her she was doing a wonderful deed by removing the monkey. I asked her if the shed was air-conditioned or had windows: No, neither; but she had the crate facing the door and the door was cracked.

I went downstairs to meet the friend, and the teenage daughter with her. They seemed to not have a care in the world. They opened the back hatch and I looked in the crate, not knowing if the monkey would be dead or alive. I could only tell she was alive by her shallow breathing. She didn't move otherwise. She appeared to be staring at her hands so I looked at them. There were no tips on her fingers. I turned to the woman and asked what happened to her fingers. She replied, "Oh, she got in this scratchin' stage and her husband made her have them removed so she couldn't scratch." As I grabbed the crate from the back of her car she was telling me how she could still really pinch hard.

I put her in my SUV and tried to get information from the woman regarding the identity of the vet was who did this, but she would not say. I left.

I called several vets in the New Orleans area and no one would see a Macaque, a new patient. All had excuses. I finally got one to give me a health certificate, a horse DVM who didn't even look in the crate. I drove madly back to Florida, stopping only for gas and to try to give the primate drops of pedilite. She refused, clinching her gums together to make sure not one little drop got into her mouth.

She lived almost a week in Florida. Her tail removal had caused severe spinal injury. My vet informed me she had a total hysterectomy not too long ago. But the cause of death was, basically, that she didn't want to live.

I cried over her lifeless body and tried to explain to her that it was all over and she was safe now. I begged her not to die. But she never even looked in my direction. A woman named Sue offered to devote her life to making her comfortable. But it was too late for her.I buried her on the South side of my facility and placed a rock there, as a marker. A reminder to me of why I am hardened and cold with little tolerance for many private owners. When I need strength to keep fighting for the primates all I must do is gaze that direction and see that stone. I was naïve as I though the people I sold to loved like I do. I need non human primates in my life because I love them. Some love them because they need them.