Monkey on Fire

There comes a time when every stuffed monkey -- especially those purchased at a local thrift store for less than $1 and that most likely contain some sort of microscopic infestation but hangs from your living room ceiling anyway -- needs to be set on fire. For our monkey, that time came one winter evening while we were watching television. For whatever reason, Preston knew it was time, and performed the brief ceremony, setting Mike's (yes, we named him Mike) head on fire and placing him out in the snow to die, right outside our sliding door and along a major pathway between buildings at the lovely Rain Tree Apartments.

But Mike would not have an honorable death. No, some cheese wad had to come along and put him out. Loser. By that point, it was much more than a simple flesh wound for Mike. The scarring alone would never heal. So we left him for the dogs.

We don't know who eventually removed the carcass, only that eventually -- after ignoring him for a day or so and letting the elements run their course -- his damp, charred body was gone.

I was never able to tell him about how I felt about him. Oh Mike. Poor Mike.

Comments

[Porgo, Mop Boy to the Gods]

that photo just rocks

[Connie Chung]

what, no marshmallows?