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?

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