I think it’s time for some tough love, folks.
Apparently, there are nutjobs out there who are raising monkeys like they were kids. They even call them “monkids.” Aw, how cute.
Lori Johnson was lonely and depressed after her youngest son left home in 1992. She yearned for another child to love. So Johnson bought a baby monkey…
At Gemini Springs in DeBary recently, Johnson pushed “Jessy” around in a toy-filled red stroller, a sight that drew attention. “Hey, it’s a real monkey,” hollered one youngster, who did a double take.
Johnson replied with a grin: “That’s not a monkey; that’s my kid.”
Oh, you’re funny, you are. Equating a living, breathing, thinking HUMAN child with your self-indulgent whim to own and raise a freaking MONKEY. And you actually HAVE a real kid? Good gravy.
I notice this all the time–batty women (not usually men) who paste pictures of their pets up in their cubicles at work, maybe Fluffy or Spot sitting on Santa’s lap at Petco, and refer to these animals as their “kids.”
I’m sorry–I have a kid, and I’ve had pets, and PETS ARE NOT KIDS.
I know it’s easy to love a dog, or a cat, or even a monkey–I’ve been there myself. It’s only natural to develop bonds with these animals and I do believe the animals themselves share some sense of feeling and emotion and attachment. (Well, except cats–the only cats I ever knew were attached to their owners as long as the food, water, and litter kept coming. Those are some ruthless-ass beasts.)
BUT THEY’RE NOT HUMAN.
When we get a dog, and it dies, it will be upsetting, and I will be shaken, and “what a shame” and all that. Then I’ll get another dog, and life will go on.
If my daughter were to die, you would be RIPPING OUT PART OF MY SOUL.
So newsflash, people: “Monkids” are NOT KIDS; neither is Fluffy or Spot. Calling them “my kids” is not charming or amusing; it’s creepy and weird.