The monkeys stake their claim
Michael Czyzniejewski In our town, we have monkeys. Like most cities have squirrels and rabbits scurrying about, we have monkeys, little brown-andwhite ones with long, curled tails. We don’t know what they’re called, where they came from, or why no town in North America has them except us. But on any given day, if you walk from your house or apartment to the park or the Kroger or downtown, you’ll probably see at least a dozen of these monkeys, climbing trees, traipsing across lawns, crossing the street; sometimes, a flattened monkey will appear in the middle of a road, but it’s rare, as they’re quick and they’re smart. They’re a part of our town, a part of the landscape, a part of us. They’re our monkeys, and unless you grew up someplace else, you don’t even notice them. Speaking of squirrels and rabbits, we’ve never had those, not ever, not that anyone can remember. No woodchucks, raccoons, or skunks, either. It’s just monkeys, monkeys and some random birds, high up in the trees, on the ledges of tall buildings, at the top of the water tower. We can’t say for sure what’s happened to these other animals, why we don’t have both, monkeys and woodland creatures, living together in harmony. There are lots of open spaces, forest preserves and fields and the undeveloped marshland behind the mall, ideal places for habitation. Just monkeys, though. Even the birds are rare, fewer and fewer every year, too, their nests higher and higher, more and more out of reach. Someone once theorized it’s urine, some strong brand of monkey pee that keeps the other animals away, pheromones so