A few days ago, my oldest surviving Minneapolitan Rainbow Monkey underwent a traumatic experience. Two kids were fighting over the monkey. He fell on the floor. I stepped in (literally), by placing my foot on the monkey, and told them, stop fighting over the monkey. The kids were adamant, however. One boy, Jack, tugged on one of the monkey's arms. I pressed harder with my foot. A diminutive girl named Amy tugged on another of the monkey's arms.
Suddenly, the arm ripped off. She staggered back, and held up the arm, looking stunned. I think she thought I would be angry. I was a bit annoyed, but this seemed like an inevitable consequence the monkey had long managed to avoid through sheer luck.
"Oh my god," I said, in surprise. "My monkey! You broke my monkey."
"I didn't do it," she protested, with a disarming grin.
"You both did it," I asserted. "I helped, too, I guess," I added, stooping to retrieve the remainder of the monkey from under my shoe.
I took the arm, and used an alligator clip (a "binder clip") to attach the arm, ad hoc, to the monkey's shoulder area. I held him up for the class. "Look! Still smiling! What a crazy monkey."
The kids laughed, probably relieved that I wasn't angry.
When I told the teachers in the staff room, later, they were angry. "How can you let kids behave like that?"
"They're just kids," I said. "The monkey seems to be OK."
At right: a picture of my monkey, awaiting surgery (aka needle and thread). He's almost 5 years old – I think he's held up pretty well.
[daily log: walking, 7km]