Andrew Monge

Listen to Andrew read his story

I’m so proud of myself.

Seems odd, given the circumstances.  After all, my actions tonight have made me a criminal.  I’m not sure what kind at this point.  Thief?  Kidnapper?  Whatever the official label, I’ve definitely broken a law.  Maybe more than one.

And I can’t stop smiling about it.

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All my life, I’ve loved animals.

It started when my parents took me to Como Zoo as a young girl.  We lived within walking distance, so it was a rare day that I wasn’t there.  While the Zoo asks for donations, it does not charge an admission fee, making it possible for Como to be my home away from home.

The Zoo has numerous diversions for little kids – an amusement park, playgrounds, gardens – but all I wanted to do was look at the animals.  I’d spend hours watching the beavers work on their dam, or the tigers wear a path along the boundary of their enclosure, or the otters swim circuits around their pool.

It came as a shock to no one when I declared my intent to be a zookeeper at a very young age.  I worked hard day and night to understand biology. Checking out books from the library in grade school, challenging myself with advanced placement classes early in high school, then moving on to post-secondary classes as a senior.  By the time I went to college to pursue a degree in zoology – focusing on the animal-based aspects of biology versus those of humans, plants, and aquatics – I really started to shine.  I soaked up knowledge like a sponge and graduated top of my class. I was ready to spend my life in the service of animals.

I even got a job where it all started, taking me back home to Como Zoo.  I didn’t think I’d ever be happier than my first day on the job.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

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The biggest disappointment of my life was realizing how blind I was.  I’d blame it on being a child mesmerized by the animal kingdom’s collective beauty, but that doesn’t explain how I missed it as a teenager, let alone as a college student.

The lifeless eyes.

The clipped wings.

The joints with bald spots, fur rubbed off from sleeping on concrete.

The self-mutilation brought on by depression and anxiety.

The spirits drained empty by monotony.

It was all too much to bear.

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Then Bongo was born. (We’ll get back to her and that hideous name later.)

Once I got my feet under me at work, I volunteered for the orangutan enclosure.  Most keepers didn’t want it because of the upkeep; I gravitated toward it because it’s one of the largest setups in the facility, making it easier for me to look upon its inhabitants and not feel awful for their situation.  I mean, if you saw how small the indoor areas are for the giraffes and lions, well…it’s just hard to see majestic creatures in such tight quarters.

When news of a baby orangutan was announced, a switch flipped inside me.  I’m not sure what was so different about that news than any of the other births, but it was the straw that broke the camel’s back for me.  I did my research and found organizations that take in domesticated animals, sending them back to their native lands.  They were especially interested in newborns that hadn’t been institutionalized yet.  Apparently organizations have tried reacclimating adults, only to find they’d lost the necessary instincts to survive on their own in the wild.  How heartbreaking is that?

And so, while Bongo nursed and grew stronger, I found a handler at Born Wild.  Together we made a plan to extricate the baby orangutan and have it moved to a rainforest in Southeast Asia.

I just needed a way to extricate her.

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Part of the plan revolved around saving my reputation so I’d stay out of jail and maintain my ability to work at more facilities down the road.  You see, my time of keeping zoos is over; my time of saving animals is just beginning.

I stole a security badge from my supervisor’s office right before closing time.  Hours later, I came back dressed head-to-toe in black, under cover of dark, made my way to the orangutans.  I felt bad loading Bongo into the backpack, concerned her mother would be sad at the loss, and would try to intervene.  I needn’t have worried; she was used to a life of misery. She didn’t budge. 

On the way to meet my contact, I changed Bongo’s name to Francine.

Its origin is French.

It means “free one.”

Tomorrow I’ll show up as normal to work and feign shock at the loss of the orangutan.  I will act confident before zoo officials and the police, answering their questions as they interview staff. I’ll maybe even shed a few tears.

They won’t be fake.  I’ll miss baby Francine.  

Then I’ll continue to work at Como while I look for my next opportunity.  In the meantime, the State Fair is about to start, and I think the inhabitants of the Butterfly House would rather travel to Mexico than be trampled by the masses of The Great Minnesota Get-Together.

Don’t you?

Andrew Monge lives in Minnesota with his wife and kids. A computer programmer by day and a voracious reader by night, he is a lifelong introvert who only finds his voice while writing. His work has appeared in Punk Noir Magazine, Trash Cat Lit, Urban Pigs Press, and Shotgun Honey.
Twitter/Bluesky: @MuchAdoAboutNil