My first job at the hospital where I worked for 20 years was as a volunteer in the Pathology Department.My boss,a neuropathologist,wanted me to go to medical school so he arranged for me to have various fascinating experiences.One was for me to assist in a kidney transplant done on a chimp in one of the research labs (it was a major hospital affiliated with a major medical school).My job was to watch (*very* interesting) and to keep an eye on the chimp.Toward the end of the procedure the anesthesia started to wear off and the chimp started moving around.The doctor said to me "we'll be done in a minute or two,could you please hold the chimp's mouth still",which I tried to do...but he (or she,can't recall which) bit me.
So now whenever anyone says to me "have I ever shown you where the monkey bit me?" I have a great comeback.
You mean to tell me that someone has actually said to you "have I ever shown you where the monkey bit me?"???
I must hang out with the wrong crowd, lol.
So now whenever anyone says to me “have I ever shown you where the monkey bit me?” I have a great comeback.
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Ah, so we have something in common. Here’s my story.
Back around 1965, in the fall, my father was in a bar, and there was a guy there with a monkey, a Capuchin. I suppose it was not illegal at the time to own such a beast, and I think the guy had won it at a carnival or some such, but I am not clear anymore about that part of the story.
Anyway, my father did not like the way the guy was treating the animal, so he bought it from him and brought it home. He had to stop on the way home to buy it a cage, as the other guy was just keeping it in his car!
The kids that were still living at home thought it was great. I was in my first year of college, and I found it somewhat amusing, although I did not get attached to it the way my next youngest sister did. My mother was not too thrilled, although she was used to my father acquiring pets for us in such a way. (He never would have admitted to being a softy, though.)
A few weeks later, the Capuchin, which my sister had now named Ethrelda, learned how to open its cage. So one of the kids would have to capture it periodically and return it to its cage, as my mother would not touch it.
Several weeks later, it was Saturday morning following Thanksgiving, when I was awakened by the sound of my father’s laughter downstairs in the kitchen. He was laughing harder than I had ever heard him laugh, and, as I came down the steps, I could hear my mother making periodic tiny shrieks.
When I got into the kitchen, I saw my father still seated at the kitchen table laughing as my mother was doing an involuntary cha-cha across the kitchen. In her two hands was a heavy platter with the Thanksgiving turkey carcass. But, in addition to the turkey, the platter also was holding the monkey, who was contentedly perched on the edge of the platter chowing down on a hunk of the turkey.
Since my father was not able to even stand, let alone help, I had to rescue my mother. But, when I grabbed Ethrelda, the monkey bit me on the inside of my left wrist.
Gave me quite a story to tell for a while.