When I was a little one, the thing I wanted most was a pet monkey. I grew up in a household moderately interested in exotic pets--at various times we had miniature horses, llamas, African pygmy hedgehogs, parrots, foxes, a skunk, and Bengal cats, and had acquaintances who had emus, deer, zebras and even a serval cat that literally clawed its way through its owner's bathroom door. My family had toyed with the idea of getting a wallaby or a fennec fox. Yet my mother still didn't consider a monkey to be an appropriate pet.
In retrospect I am relieved that she didn't give in on that one (mostly because there is no ending for that kind of story that does not involve stitches), but at the time I found it unreasonable. Of course monkeys were safe, I thought; otherwise they wouldn't sell them! I didn't see what could be wrong with having a little organ grinder monkey to ride around on my shoulders wherever I went. I fantasized about it.
