I don’t remember where we got the monkey.
The armadillo was roadkill we picked up on our trip to the Southwest the summer after Jordi had been killed. And the raccoon, same thing, from our trip to see Aunt Marta in Bemidji the year, no, it was two years before that. There had been plenty of raccoons to choose from, although not as many as in Missouri (but the Minnesota ones were in better shape overall).
I will never forget the goose. I had left the door open and it walked right in through the kitchen and Tom killed it with a 6‑inch cast iron skillet. And the woodchuck that we treed in the apple orchard, of course; we had him mounted in a little baseball uniform, just for fun.
But where on earth did we get the monkey?