Killa, The Orphaned Monk Saki

After two long days of travel, I walked into this spacious, poorly lit jungle kitchen in the middle of the Amazon Rainforest with two rambunctious dogs trotting happily at my side. A long wooden table, suitable for nearly 30 people, sat between two long benches. Just at the edge of one bench was a small cardboard box where her tiny, little head of straight black fur bobbed up and down; weak thin fingers attempting to lift her skinny little frame just enough to see over the edge. There she was, Killa (pronounced Keeja, meaning “moon” in native Quechua) the rare, 1 – 2-month-old Monk Saki baby I was told about prior to my arrival.

My heart exploded at the sight of her as I somehow managed to compose myself and suppress my excitement with a forced calm and professional look on my face. Immediately I noticed so many questionable things that needed to be addressed. Why was such a young primate left to sit alone in a box? As I looked around me at the house full of male workers bustling about to complete endless jobs on the property, I began to understand why. The only women in the home were the cook who did not live there, a mother to a 6-month-old child and a volunteer from the United States who had not been there long, was leaving tomorrow and had no real training in wildlife rehabilitation, especially with primates. Although she was helping with Killa, there was certainly a lack in dedication and in the commitment necessary for rehabilitating such a young, fragile animal. Of course, this was no fault of her own as she had clearly had little guidance during her brief stay.

 My first observation was Killa’s pamper which was noticeably dirty. Her stuffed animal was also dirty. The volunteer showed me Killa’s milk bottle and explained to me how it was difficult for her to convince Killa to drink. I had been there perhaps only 10 minutes by this point and already wanted to completely take over, for the sake of this magnificent baby girl. I asked to give feeding her a try myself and quickly found Killa preferred to lap up drops of milk rather than suckle. I pointed out some blood at the edge of her pamper, to which the owner of the facility somewhat brushed off as something we should just make sure is not continuing. He was convinced it was bloody stool seeping from the sides of the pamper. I, however, believe it was a result of raw skin, from the pamper not being changed frequently enough. The volunteer also informed me she was not responsible for cleaning Killa’s box because of the roaches that accumulate inside it and frighten her. I nearly visibly quivered in complete frustration. She would spend her final night at the rescue center with baby Killa in her room, but after that, I was taking over, full time! This is what I do, and I was ready to get to work and undo the damage that had already been done.

 The next morning, Killa and I said our goodbyes to the girl who I had barely gotten to know, and as I held the baby in one arm and her bottle of milk in the other, I knew she could see this monkey was now in experienced hands and she looked relieved. Killa sat, cradled in my arms, looking up at this new face and although it was only day one of my work, all I could think about was how our inevitable goodbye would undoubtedly rip me apart. That’s just how it goes when you do what I do. I save animals for a living. I put myself at the forefront of their suffering, hopefully save their lives and then say goodbye as I move on to my next mission. It’s a routine I’ve become all too familiar with, though it never tends to hurt any less.

 One of the first problems I noticed with Killa was that she was not gripping on to me as a monkey her age should. Her hands were surprisingly weak, especially her right. This was likely due to being ripped away from her mother’s fur at such a young age and not being given the proper opportunity to grab and hold on to anything. She spent way too much time in that damn box with a toy that had no lengthy fur to grip on to, and so, from then on, every day I worked on strengthening her fingers through various exercises and techniques. Additionally, Killa needed a routine, and so I started one. She had routine feedings throughout the day and during the night. She had bedtime and regular wake up times. Her and I took jungle walks together in the mornings and late afternoons and she had regular naps. At night, I allowed Killa to rest with me on my bed for 30 minutes to an hour. Still, I never allowed her to sleep with me throughout the night. As a temporary surrogate, I had to be cautious about our bond as to prevent her from becoming overly stressed or depressed when it would come time for me to leave. I also tried to keep a routine with Killa’s pamper changes, conserving the hard-to-find neonatal diapers I had for her as well as allowing her to take much needed breaks from them each morning. I made sure to keep her body and her bedding as clean as possible, too.

 Another major issue I faced was mosquitos, of course for myself, sure, but more importantly, for Killa. Killa would scratch and scratch, especially at night, just like me. In the wild, these arboreal primates are nowhere near as exposed to mosquitos as we are close to the ground. There was no controlling or combating the mosquitos in that part of the rainforest during the early months of the year. Natural repellents from plants and termites were her only hope for relief. I, on the other hand, found no relief and simply ripped myself apart daily in a frenzy of itchiness.

 As time passed, Killa began to blossom into the breathtakingly unique species that is the Monk Saki. Her eyes widened more and more each day with wonder. Her fur grew in, thick and black with little highlights everywhere. She had grown accustomed to our routine and knew when it was time for her bottle and her naps. She was surrounded by the sounds of free range rescued monkeys all around her, and her curiosity began to ignite. She became stronger and was soon able to lift herself up. Her little hands were able to grip again, and she’d hang on to me and on to the branches strategically placed in her day nursery. Her squeaks and chirps, exclusive to her species, became louder and more varied. She was no longer just surviving, she was thriving, I was succeeding, and there were days I felt truly blessed and proud of myself.

 My final goal with Killa was to get her to eat solid foods. It was about that time, and she was already beginning to use her mouth more and more to bite on anything she could get it on. She first licked some water drops off a leaf and then proceeded to attempt to chew on it. It was not a food option suitable for her species’, and so I prevented her from eating it and got started on developing a solid-food-introduction plan. I started with something soft and palatable - a banana. At first she took a few small bites and you could almost see her response to the new flavor explosion happening in her mouth. Due to its high sugar content, I decided to stay away from bananas for the most part moving forward and tried apples instead. I sliced and mashed the apples into nearly pulverized bits. Come feeding time, instead of offering the bottle first, I presented her the mashed apple. Immediately she went for it and chewed it very well. I did it! She had officially graduated to solid foods which could now be slowly introduced into her regular diet.

My little Killa was growing stronger and brighter every day. She was climbing and vocalizing and eating small meals of solid foods along with her milk. Her stool was healthy, and her sleeping patterns were consistent as she began to sleep well through the night. We’d spend time together in the hammock or on my bed, resting after a long, hot day and she’d look up at my face in a gaze and grab onto my cheek. She had become my whole world and my best friend out there in that part of the jungle. Sadly, with all I had accomplished, it was finally time to say goodbye.

 Goodbyes are hard for me.. all goodbyes, any goodbye. Sometimes I hide it well. With her, I couldn’t. When my boat had gotten to the dock on the Amazon River that sad day, I did not draw out this long, elaborate goodbye with my dear Killa. I kissed her on her head and walked away, in inconsolable tears. The staff hugged me, they thanked me, they assured me she’d be ok and that they’d update me constantly on her progress. And, they sure have. It was the most emotionally exhausting rehabilitation of my career. I had grown deeply attached to Killa, despite trying to remain professional. She had become my entire daily routine. She was, during that time, my baby. She was my baby. And just like that, she was gone from my life. I wondered, did she think she again, had no mama? Would that staff follow the strict instructions I put together for them to follow in order to guarantee her continued success? Today, it’s safe to say they have. I now sponsor Killa, and she is doing very well, running through the grass, and probably already making primate friends. I couldn’t possibly be prouder.

 There will always be another rescue. There will always be another orphan. There will always be another mission, another country, another sanctuary. There will be lows of failure and highs of success, and there will always be another goodbye, another bitter-sweet heartbreak, another final farewell to another rescued animal who will change my life forever just like every other rescue before it. And then I’ll come up for air once more and do it all over again.