When Chimps Attack
I sometimes think I’m the defender of weirdos having been one of the people who made a half-assed attempt at defending Octo-Mom. Ultimately, I don’t support her choices apart from to acknowledge that they are just that: her choices. But just so you know, I think she’s a total whack job.
The story of Sandra Herold and her chimp, Travis is really the story of the inconsolable lonliness of a woman whose biggest connection wasn’t with a person. Anyone who has had the unconditional love of a dog or a cat can understand her attachment to a chimp. True, I don’t bathe with my cat and she doesn’t brush my hair (a function of her not having thumbs). But she does sleep along side me every night, taking up the space on the other side of the bed, absorbing some of the lonely. I talk to her when I come through the door after work, ask her if an outfit makes my ass look fat (yes, her eyes say, always yes).
It’s easy to say that people shouldn’t keep chimps as pets, and probably they shouldn’t. But all animals, even my 12 year old domesticated short-haired house cat could get a little loopy around the edge and claw me, or someone else to bits. My mom’s Australian Terrier, Harry Potter is the sweetest dog… except when he thinks my mom or I might be in danger, danger defined as a plastic bag blowing on the wind, and then look out. He throws his 12lbs around like a rottweiler.
Travis weighed 200lbs or so and after living with Sandra Herold for so many years had bonded to her and the home they shared. When he attacked her friend, it was (I believe) pure territorial instinct. Charla Nash is at the Cleveland Clinic, mauled beyond recognition, Travis the Chimp is dead and Sandra Herold is ill equipped to cope with equal parts of grief and guilt.
I can probably defend her less than I can empathize with how I would imagine she’s feeling. And obviously, I feel bad for Charla Nash.
But, God help me, I feel really bad for Travis the Chimp.
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