Monkey

For most of his life, Monkey was known as Julian.  He was owned by an older gentleman and was very loved.  When Julian was 12, the man had a stroke and ended up in a nursing home.   Julian ended up at CNY SPCA. 

In the shelter, he was terrified and shut down, and even though he was fostered right away,  he was still overwhelmed.  The shelter reached out to me and he came to live here at Ben’s Place in December of 2023.

Very quickly Julian’s true personality came out, but he didn’t seem like a “Julian” to me.  He had this bright spark about him, this happy bouncy spunky energy.  He was just such a little Monkey that that’s what I renamed him. 

And Monkey WAS a bright spark.  His face always had this adorable, intelligent, perky little expression.  He would be-bop around the house, around the yard.  Doop-dee-doop-dee-doo.  Not that interested in me, not that interested in the other dogs, just bip bip bipping along, checking stuff out.  You’d be sitting on the back deck and way off on the far fence line you’d see movement.  You’d squint your eyes and think “is that Monkey?!?” And sure enough, there he was, WAY out on the far end of the yard, trot trot trotting along.

Monkey was absolutely fearless when it came to jumps.  He’d stand on the edge of the bed, or the arm of the couch, or one time before I could catch him, the deck, take one look over the side, then “GERONIMO”!!  He’d take a flying leap, spread his arms and legs out like a canine skydiver, and OOMPH land on the ground, stand up, shake himself off, and away he’d go. Doop-dee-doop-dee-doo.  I very quickly learned that placing big soft pillows around everything he could get on was in everyone’s best interests.

He was affectionate, to a point.  He’d let you pick him up, he’d give you kisses, but only for 10-15 seconds or so.  Then it was “OK, we’re done here” and squirm squirm squirm off he went.

Monkey had very unique kisses.  He didn’t have great control over his tongue, so sometimes his kisses would land, but other times his tongue would flop out to the side and his “kiss” was more of a scrape with his front teeth.  What was constant though was how enthusiastic he was about giving them!

He had the most amazing sense of when I was getting  meals ready.  I wouldn’t see him for hours, but the minute I put the bowls out and start filling them, BOOM, there’s Monkey yap yap yapping at my heels, dancing in between all the other dogs’ legs, jumping up on his hind legs just to make sure I saw him and knew he wants his food, too!

He always had free run of the house, but he preferred to be by himself up on the big bed in the master bedroom.  In the warmer weather, when the back door was open and he could go outside, he’d come down more, but for the most part he spent his time upstairs, by himself, curled up on my bed.  

Several times a day over the last  two plus years, I’d go upstairs and crawl up on the bed. He’d trot over to me, lean into me, give me kisses/scrapes, then GERONIMO off the side of the bed, come downstairs with me, get a treat, check stuff out, then head back upstairs.  We did that thousands of times.  It always made my heart lighter that no matter what was going on, what I was doing, there was that certainty, that routine. I’d go upstairs and there was Monkey, his happy, perky little self, kiss kiss kiss, cuddle cuddle cuddle, just as adorable as can be. 

He was happy and healthy for the longest time.  Right up until he wasn’t.  I don’t know what it was, old age maybe, but towards the end of 2025 he started losing weight, despite eating as much as ever.  He slept more, then lots more.  More than anything, his spark was gone and as the days and weeks went by, he was just a shell of his former self.  It was only a day or two after Walter died that Monkey picked at his food, had trouble with his coordination.  He’d stumble when he walked, then stopped eating altogether. 

It was devastating to see my bright spark of a Monkey like that.  It was time.

The vet came out to the house and he passed peacefully.   I rested my hand on his bony ribs, petted him softly, kept saying “My Monkey. . . My Monkey. . .” 

I didn’t have any other words.

I like to think that my dogs wait for me.  That they’re all together across the rainbow bridge, happy, playing, and one day we’ll be reunited.

But I think Monkey, Julian, isn’t with the pack.  I think he had someone waiting for him on the other side, the man who loved him and cared for him for as long as he could.  The man who, I am told, wanted to get better so he could “get Julian back.”

I like to think they’re reunited, and Monkey’s special scrape-kisses fell on that mans’ face, just as tears were falling on mine.

Go with Love, Monkey.  Go with Love.