1) Chiquito had broken another pair of eyeglasses, or
2) Chiquito had escaped.
I headed out of the bedroom into my study, which faces the cage...and was met by Chiquito as he swung open the screen door. There is NOTHING more disastrous than a spider monkey ransacking the house, so the moment is burned into my "abject horror memory" (along with a few others provided by Chiquito).
I froze in my tracks. And incredibly, Chiquito did the same. He was face to face with Evie, our Golden Retriever, who was between me and the door. Paul and I might hang out with carnivores, but Chiquito's no fool. Nanoseconds later the screen door slammed shut in Evie's face.
Adrenalin shot through me like electricity and I blitzed around inside the house closing sliding doors and locking everything else. And then...never one to miss a photo op...I grabbed my camera.
I could write pages describing the fifteen minutes that followed, not unlike the TV show 24 (hours) that lasted a season at a time. I heard Chiquito on the roof. I snapped a picture of him peering in the front window. I spotted him crossing the driveway.
Paul had passed through the stages of Anger and Denial into Depression by the time I handed him Chiquito's leash and a small container of honeycomb, and he sat on the front porch to try Bargaining...with the hope that honey was more enticing than freedom.
At some point Paul questioned my conviction that Chiquito would never run away.
"He won't," I said. "He'll come back. But it might not be until dark."
And then as deliberately as he'd strolled out through the double escape door Paul had accidentally left open, Chiquito sauntered back into his cage for breakfast.