I met my first (and only) baboon one hot summer day years ago right here in Norco, California. Her somewhat eccentric owner, a friend of my sister, Patty, urged me to come over and see her "little girl." She'd had Devon from infancy and showed me a photo of the olive-brown baboon in Pampers, drinking from a baby bottle.
I personally felt that people should not have exotic animals as pets. And baboons are notorious for being probably the most vicious of primates. So I really had no interest in meeting this baboon. But Hillary had become a sort of honorary part of our family, so I went to be nice.
In her dusty backyard, surrounded by brittle knee-high silvery-brown weeds, I first made the acquaintance of Devon. Her beady little eyes darted quickly this way and that, taking in every detail of my person, every little nuance in my body language."Be careful of your sunglasses," Hillary said as I squatted down to come to Devon's level outside her chain link fence. "She's very curious about keys and glasses and jewelry, and she is as quick as lightning. Once she gets hold of your things, you may never get them back. Be careful…!"
I held out a handful of raisins to Devon, who quickly darted out a little olive hand and deftly snatched most of them with her nimble black fingers. Then, just as quickly her other hand dodged through the chain link and she pinched up the last two raisins and retreated with such quickness and precision I stared in amazement.
I spoke to her and she glanced at me quickly then averted her eyes and walked away as though I were not there, using her right hand to dust the ground and pick at little particles.
It annoyed me to be dismissed like that. I prided myself as being good with animals. How dare she make me look bad! I called her name, but Hillary told me, "She's not a dog. She won't come when you call her. They have minds of their own. She won't do anything she doesn't want to do."
We walked over to the wolf's pen so I could be introduced to Patches. He appeared much friendlier, licking my fingers and rubbing against the fence so I could scratch his thick fur. Now, this is more like it, I thought. And I didn't even bring him a treat!
As we walked back past Devon's pen, she hurried over to the fence and looked up at me, crouching down and raising her little eyebrows, she then turned around to expose her hind end to me.
"Well, how rude!" I laughed. "And to think I gave you raisins and everything!"Hillary said, "No, no! Actually that is a compliment. That means she wants to be your friend. In baboon language, that is like shaking hands. If you trust someone, you show them your butt."
It sounded weird to me, but she was the baboon expert, so I told her I would just take her word for it.
Years passed, and Devon's ow
ner, Hillary died, promising my sister, Patty, that if she would take care of the wolf, the baboon and her three dogs, she would leave Patty her house. She stipulated that Patty had to live there for five years before it would become hers free and clear. The house desperately needed lots of repairs, and we went to work, tearing up filthy carpet, hauling out mountains of newspapers and clutter.Patty isn't much for home decor, so she was satisfied with that. But I wanted the inside to look nice, at least. I took over from there. I just loved the painting and patching and remodeling. And in no time it looked quite livable and homey.
Who would have ever thought…. Our own little zoo! Not only did we now have Hillary's wolf, baboon and three dogs, but Patty's three dogs, and two horses and my two cats and forty-some lovebirds.
Every morning I would walk out into the back yard (which was now green and neatly mowed, with Patty's efforts) and pull up a webbed sand chair to visit with Devon. She would come over, show me her rear end, then check to see if I had a treat for her. Some days I did, some days I didn't. (And she especially liked ice cubes our of my Dr. Pepper glass!) Then she would set about checking my bare feet for cooties. Those were pleasant days.
Ten days after I moved in, I was in the kitchen washing dishes when I smelled smoke. Not a barbecue charcoal kind of smoke. Wood smoke. Forest fire kind of smoke.
But the strong Santa Anna winds carried the unmistakable smell of fire.
I hurried through the house and out into the front yard, for a better look. Still nothing. But definitely the smell of smoke. I began to worry. The smell of smoke alone might not be a cause of worry, but in the early January morning, the Santa Ana winds were blowing hard, whipping a cold wind down off the high deserts of southern California.
The winds whipped down off the desert, through the pass and out across the plain where it blew right down our road from the north.
Leaning into the buffeting wind, and pulling my jacket tightly around my chin, I pushed past the last two houses on the street toward the end of the road. There, a 50-foot bluff overlooks the wide Santa Ana riverbed.
Miles of wilderness mostly made up of arundo, a wild cane much like sugar cane. I usually loved the view from the top of the bluff. The miles and miles of wild cane, punctuated here and there by a cottonwood stand or a lone eucalyptus tree, and surveyed by hawks circling overhead. The fickle Santa Ana River winding here and there among the rushes, picking and choosing its path through the sandy bottoms, and often changing its mind.But at this moment, leaning heavily into the wind, I found no beauty in the sight before me. A small column of smoke rose from the far side of the wilderness, thin and wispy. The site chilled me to the bone. With 50 mph winds, that spark would spread in no time. And to make it worse, the smoky column rose directly up-wind from us. I ran home, the almost hurricane-strength wind pushing me down the street as I tried to calculate how long until the fire reached us.
"Patty…? PATTY!" I called, blowing in the front door on a stiff gale, slamming it shut against the blowing sand and leaves.
She came from the back of the house to see what all the fuss was about.
"Patty! There's a fire…" I panted. "Quick! We have to get out of here and get the animals to safety!"She looked at me as though I had lost my mind.
"Come look. Quick!"
We hurried out the front door and battled our way up the street, fighting the wind that was now blowing sand and leaves down the street. After looking at the column of smoke, she didn't seem as concerned as I was."Patty," I insisted. "It's already doubled in size. And it's directly up wind from us. There is nothing between it and here to stop it. Just a mile of cane and trees to fuel it. This place is going to burn! We need to get the animals and evacuate!"
We'd never discussed an evacuation plan. It had honestly never crossed either of our minds. How do you evacuate nine dogs, two cats, forty-some lovebirds, two horses, a wolf and a baboon when a wildfire is a mile upwind in 70-mph winds?
Patty said she'd call her boyfriend, who was supposed to be a retired fireman and see what he thought.
"Forget Mark!" I yelled above the strengthening wind. "We don't have time!"
I ran back house toward house, banging on neighbors doors as I went and telling anyone who answered the door what appeared to be inevitable. Running back home, I found Patty still on the phone talking to Mark. He was on his ATV and was going to drive out to see the fire himself before coming home.
I figured we had less than twenty minutes to completely evacuate, and Patty was content to wait for Mark to play explorer boy. She still didn't believe it would be necessary to evacuate, so I began without her help.
I started with the dogs, as they were easiest. One…., two…, three…. I started pushing them into her small Geo Metro. Not only did we have Hillary's three and Patty's three, but now Mark's three hunting dogs were there too! In went Goose, the black lab, followed by Flower, the shepherd mix and her pit bull buddy, Motly. Then a Pomeranian and Patty's little teacup poodle, Baby Dog.
When Patty's tiny car was full, I started shoving dogs into my not-much-bigger Saturn. In went Amanda the collie, a german short haired pointer, a Vizsla (which looks much like a red Weimaraner) and a Rat Terrier. Six…, seven…, eight…, nine! In no time flat all nine dogs were crammed like sardines into the two cars.
Next came the birds. I don't know how, but I caught all 40 plus lovebirds in less than five minutes and placed them in two cages in the only room in the house with no window.I knew there was little chance they'd survive. Birds respiratory systems are so fragile. Even if the house didn't burn, they'd probably be consumed by smoke.
I grabbed a rubber-backed table cloth and threw it over their cages, then dragged two blankets into the shower to get them wet. Tears running down my face, I lay the wet blankets over the cages with my precious little birds inside, hoping the wet blankets might keep out some of the smoke.
Leaving the room, I pulled the door shut, realizing I might never see them again. I wadded up some damp towels and wedged them in at the base of the door to try to keep out as much smoke as possible.
In the ten or so minutes it had taken to do all this, the thin column of smoke had become a full-blown fire storm. Grayish-black smoke filled the air and I could now hear the cracking and popping of the burning cane down on the riverbed.
"Patty," I gasped, finding her on the phone again trying to reach Mark who wasn't answering.
"PATTY! It's too late. Forget Mark! It's coming this way and we have to get out of here!" I was overcome with a coughing spasm. I grabbed a kitchen towel and wet it then used it to cover my nose and mouth to help cut the smoke. She looked at me, seeming finally now to understand the urgency. I think she must have been in shock.
"Mark's gonna be here in about fifteen minutes. He'll know what to do…."
Glowing red cinders and huge black ashes were blowing horizontally down the road and the sky had turned a bloody mahogany.
"Forget it, Patty!" I insisted. We don't have fifteen minutes. It's half way across the riverbed, and the wind has got to be almost seventy miles-per-hour! I've already had to stamp out two spots in the yard that were lit by flying cinders! All the dogs and the birds are taken care of. The cats are in a carrier, and I will put them in my trunk." I said, "Cuz I can't put them in the car with Mark's hunting dogs…. What do we do about Devon and the wolf?"
There. It had finally been said. There was an elephant in the room that we'd been tiptoe-ing around.
"Forget them," she said, still not thinking rationally. "There's no way we can evacuate them. They haven't been out of those pens in years. There's no way we are gonna get them out and into cages… I better get the horses…." And with that, she went out into the back yard and haltered the horses, planning to ride one and lead the other down the street.
But by the time she got them to the front gate, we found that total strangers, realizing what was happening, had hitched up their horse trailers and were driving up and down the street offering to transport any horse that needed evacuation. What a godsend! We loaded the horses up and headed back into the yard for the last two - our dilemmas: Devon and Patches.
"We can't leave them, Patty. I don't care if they haven't been out of those cages in years, we just can't leave them!" I yelled over the roaring of the fire, my words being carried away by the whipping wind.
"You distract her," Patty said, "And I will sneak up behind her and grab her by the scruff of her neck. But you better move quick, cuz she's gonna go ballistic! We are only gonna get once chance. If we blow it this time, there is no chance in hell we'll catch her again!"
Patty knew her well. Like clockwork, just as though Patty did this every day, she quickly grabbed Devon, by the back of the neck and she went ballistic! But we had her in the crate lickety-split without anyone getting bitten.
Less than a minute for the whole procedure. Then we quickly crated the agitated wolf, Patches, who had been anxiously trotting back and forth, back and forth, knowing something was terribly wrong.
Just at that minute, crotchety old Mark arrived with the keys to his truck. I never thought I'd EVER be so glad to see him because we could never get the wolve's and baboon's crates out in our tiny cars. Mark would not help with the animals. He just wanted to get his guns and his laptop! So Patty and I quickly hoisted the two heavy crates into the back of Mark's truck on our own and strapped them in tightly, padlocking Devon's cage to be safe.
By now the flames out on the riverbed leapt two hundred feet into the air and the sky was so black with smoke that the street lights came on. But the only light from the street lamps was an eerie orange glow against the billowing black sky. Breathing became incfreasingly difficult and I had to take a puff of my inhaler.
The popping and crackling of the inferno on the riverbed had become deafening, even from a hundred yards away. And the huge, black ashes were flying by horizontally, blown down the street by the devil winds. We could barely hear each other above the roar of the wind and the horrific crackling and popping.In less than 20 minutes, the fire had gone from a spark to a full-fledged, mile wide firestorm. And, amazingly, in that amount of time, with the help of strangers, we had evacuated nine dogs, two cats, two horses, a wolf, a baboon, and forty some birds.
On the way down the road, I noticed our neighbor's obnoxious watchdog still in his yard, and realized no one was home to save him. So I stopped the car, and though he barked visciously at me like any good watchdog would, I grabbed him up and shoved him in with the other four already in there. Then, driving slowly with headlights on, we headed down the road away from the inferno.
Two long blocks away, we stopped just short of the police blockade, knowing that once outside that line, we would not be allowed back in.
And there we sat out the fire, fretting and worrying. Each time a new column of smoke went up, we were sure it was a house, and feared it might be ours.
At first, Devon was angry at being in the crate. She would grab the metal bars and shake and rattle them, jumping up and down, screaming and raising her little eyebrows in alarm.
Thank goodness I had grabbed a bag of peanuts on my last hurried trip into the house. We fed them to Devon a few at a time, to distract her, much like one would distract a worried child.I draped a car blanket over her cage so she could not see much of what was going on because it upset her so. She finally settled down after a while, realizing, I think, that Patty and I were there to help her. And Patches who had shared the pen next to hers for the last ten years was in a crate right next to her. She couldn't see him, but she could smell him. So she knew her 'family' was all there.
But every so often, when the roar of the fire got too loud, or something else caught her attention, I noticed that she would furrow her brow just like a human, and would rub her thumb and index and middle fingers together, anxiously, in consternation.
I will never forget the picture of Devon sitting in that cage worriedly rubbing her fingers and thumb back and forth, back and forth, the only visible sign of her inner turmoil.The firefighters did an outstanding job, using water-dropping helicopters and borate bombers to get the horrific fire under control. We sat out the fire just blocks away, listening to the angry roar of the fire and the explosive popping of the river cane.
And finally we were given the all clear just as the sun went down. They told us to sleep with our shoes on, just in case there was a flare up and we had to re-evacuate. I had a hard
time sleeping that night, between listening for signs of the fire springing back up and wondering in amazement at how quickly we had flown into action and done the impossible in evacuating like we did.
The fire burned within fifty yard of our home, and consumed seven of our neighbors' homes. And our hearts went out to those who had lost so much. We all agreed that it was amazing how those hard-working firemen had saved the majority of our neighborhood from the fiery devastation.
From that day on, Devon became even more attached to Patty and me. Each morning when I walked into the back yard for morning feeding, Devon would jump and grunt and stick her little fingers through the fence to wiggle them at me in hello.
When I said, "Good morning, Devon. How's my little monkey-girl?I love you…!" she would reach down with both arms and hug her left leg to say "I love you too!" It made my heart melt.
She had lived in that huge, chain-link cage for so long I knew she missed companionship. So I would go in and sit with her sometimes and let her groom through my hair looking for cooties. And she would reward me with a quick hug and then she'd be off again.
But she loved Patty even more, as Patty was the one who fed her twice each day, bringing her a bowl with a variety of fresh fruits and vegetables and a scoop of dry dog food. Devon would stand up on two feet, her eyebrows raised in attention, and jump up on the deck where her food and water dishes were, eagerly waiting for Patty to bring her food.
She had a few muddy old "toys" in her cage, and one day when I accidentally bumped her blue rubber football with my foot, she became very upset.
She picked up the ball and cradled it like a baby, walking along on the other three feet giving me the dirtiest look. It was then that I realized how much Devon wanted a baby.
Later that night I asked Patty about the old ratty-looking blue football and she told me that was Devon's 'baby.' Her imaginary friend, as it were.
So a few days later, at Walmart, I came across the perfect "baby" for Devon, quite by accident. An adorable little stuffed monkey with those long wrap-around arms that velcro, and beady little black eyes (much like Devon's.)
Someone had laid it down at the magazine section of the check out stand, and instantly I thought of Devon.
For Devon, it was love at first sight. She grabbed the baby monkey from me immediately and hugged it to herself with one arm, while scooting around the cage on the other three legs. She stopped and held the ba
by up for a good look, then tucked it under her arm again and walked around more, hugging that baby to her.From that day on, she carried her "baby" everywhere with her, tucking him under one arm and cradling him, walking on the other three feet. She would sit him down to by her dish at breakfast and dinner when she was fed, and dunk him in her water bowl for a bath.
It was the sweetest thing… (In the picture above she is grooming my foot with two hands, and you can see her holding her "baby" with the toes of her hind leg so he's not out of reach!)
Never in a million years did I imagine that a ugly little red-butted baboon would bring such joy to my heart. I cherish the days she and I shared.
Part 2
A few short years after the river bed fire, I took a call at work one afternoon, wiping off my oiled hands as I finished a massage. “Hello! Chiro Care Center. How can I help you?”
“Liz…” the rest of the sentence was swallowed by a gulping sort of sob.
Patty…?” I thought I must be wrong. My sister, Patty, just isn’t a crier.
After an extended pause, Patty managed, “Devon’s dead!”
Surely I had heard her wrong. Devon was only 14! Baboons in captivity live to 35. I knew, because I’d researched it once that silly baboon wiggled her way into my heart. She hadn’t even reached middle age! my brain cried out.
“What do you mean, she’s dead?!”
“I took out her lunch….” And there were several seconds of sniffling as I waited, holding my breath and still praying I was dreaming. “And she choked on a carrot…!”
After sitting her ‘baby’ down next to the dish, Devon had picked out the grapes first, then quickly – too quickly – popped a carrot slice into her mouth and somehow got it wedged in her wind pipe.Patty, a trained nurse, quickly unlocked the pen and dashed in the gate. She lifted the now limp Devon and wrapped her arms around her belly, thrusting upward quickly against her diaphragm. But the Heimlich maneuver did not dislodge the carrot, even with repeated efforts.
Maybe it had come out, unnoticed. She lay poor Devon down and tried to administer CPR, but to no avail. Unbelievably, our sweet monkey-girl was gone, just like that!
My heart broke. How anyone can be that devastated at losing such an ugly creature baffled those who did not know my Devon. But it felt like losing a child. She had been that much a part of my day.
But the heartache had only just begun.
Patty called the vet to inquire about disposal of the body, but incredibly, they informed her that in post-9/11 America, it was illegal for them to even touch a domesticated primate. Apparently the government viewed our poor, dead baby as a possible biohazard threat!
They suggested we call Loma Linda Medical Center, as they have test baboons in their medical laboratory and must have a vet who is qualified to handle them. But after several p
hone calls, we reached their vet who also declined to touch our Devon for fear of governmental retribution.They suggested we check with the California Fish and Game department who issued the permits licensing Devon to be held in captivity. They were of no help. If Uncle Sam says don’t touch anybody’s monkey, they don’t touch! They suggested calling UC Davis.
The University of California, Davis campus runs the California National Primate Research Center. Maybe they could help us with our 'problem.' Now she wasn’t just a deceased loved one, she was 'our problem'! After some arguing back and forth, UC Davis said they would take Devon, but she had to be delivered in person.
So Patty took off a day from work, tucked our poor Devon into a large igloo cooler and headed north on the all-day trip to UC Davis.But once there, they could not accept her without a letter from the Fish and Game Department. The very same Fish and Game who provided regular permits for a fee, but who refused to take any responsibility for helping us ‘dispose of our problem,' and refused to write a letter for us.
So, Patty and the igloo and Devon’s body came back home. Devastated, she tried to figure out what else to do with our dear, beloved monkey.
It would be illegal to bury her ourselves. And nobody in the entire state of California could or would take responsibility of disposing of her poor body, as that too would be illegal.
So Patty had to empty out the outside fridge (which held the monkey’s and wolf’s food) and put Devon inside it to prevent her little body of decomposing before we found an answer.
She told them we’d both attended Loma Linda University and lived just across the street. Then she told them about poor Devon and her now many-day search for a place to put her poor body at rest legally.
They, too, said it was a federal crime for them to accept a primate’s body, as it could be a source of biohazard domestic terrorism, though of course they realized Devon probably wasn't.
But eventually, after some begging and crying, they agreed to take poor Devon’s body off our hands – but only if we brought her to the back door under the cover of nightfall.
And so our sweet Devon finally found the only home that would take her now-stilled body. And I’ve never yet been able to go to their wonderful Natural History Museum in the years since, for fear that I might see my dear, sweet Devon on display, frozen in place for eternity, looking out through beady glass eyes.
I would be heartbroken if she didn’t raise her eyebrows in excitement and grunt excitedly. If she didn’t wave her little, black fingers hello at me and turn around and hug her leg to say “I love you,” I would not be able to continue.So I am glad now that the museum is only opened for a few hours on Saturday afternoon. That’s the afternoon when I am usually far away in El Monte with friends. So I don’t even have to think about my little monkey-girl, possibly standing frozen in place in a display just a stone’s throw from our home.
What did I learn from this one? Well..... Nothing profound this time. No miracles. No incredible lessons in wisdom.
But, I learned that -
- - again, don't judge a book by its cover - or a monkey by her butt... Take the time to get to know the truth before you make snap decisions about others.
- - stereotypes are not fair. (She definitely was a gross exception to the rule!)
- love comes in a multitude of fabrics, and not all of them are pretty.
- - we'll never really know how many crazy, invisible ways 9/11 changed our lives forever.
- - it is indeed better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
- - and that the appearance of Southern California's Santa Ana winds always seems to bring the wackos out of the woodwork, and someone is going to start a wildfire somewhere.
And just last Monday after our Memorial Day barbecue, my niece Kaylee and I went down to the river bottom, finding our way through the arundo to the river. I was surprised to find reminders of the fire all these years afterward. Here is a little but sturdy cockle burr still standing firm fiver years after being ravaged by fire.Liz Carson Rosas
29 May 2009
For more pictures of our Memorial Day fun on the riverbottom, check these out: http://www.flickr.com/photos/lizupatree/sets/72157618809808754/
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