Melanie Krimm and her Monk Skunk: A Short, Ridiculous Story...Part I

Once upon a time there was a precocious and slightly melancholy girl named Melanie. Melanie was precocious because she was six, and melancholy because she wasn't seven. You see, Melanie was a Krimm, and every Krimm child on their seventh birthday is given a skunk.

Now skunks are the very best present a girl of the Krimm family could ever hope to receive. You see, Krimm daughters, like skunks, love berries. And as you know, all that a Krimm could ever come to want was companionship while picking their bushels of bright blue berries.

"Stop rubbing it in, narrator," Melanie said to me. "I'm not yet seven, so I cannot enjoy the soothing friendship of a sweet little skunk, and am rather lonely and melancholy whilst picking my berries."

"Well, Melanie, we wouldn't have a story without the hope of you receiving your precious companion, you precocious girl," I half-consoled, and half-silenced the melancholy Melanie.

She moped and she moped and she moped, every once in a while imploring me to narrate in more of a hurry. I always replied that it only depended upon the speed with which the reader reads. She always replied with a precocious "Humph!"

In unfortunate timing for our melancholy Melanie, skunk history now tells us that due to an unfortunate shortage of ice chips in the summer of '96, skunk moms simply refused to have their skunk babies. This both unfortunately and miraculously left no little skunk for Melanie's parents to give to their expectant soon-to-be seven-year-old. I say unfortunately because Melanie was quite extremely disappointed--

"I am quite extremely disappointed!" Melanie cried.

--But I also said miraculous, Melanie. For, of course, the fates had something much better in store for the berry-picking Krimm.

Whilst the skunk moms kept their skunk babies to themselves, the monkey population in Madagascar was experiencing a slightly surprising surplus of silly monkey babies. I say only slightly surprising because every year in late spring and early summer, many new monkeys are born, but this particular year saw much monkey forgetfulness. The monkeys simply forgot it was May.

Hearing of this, Melanie's mom made a beeline for busy, banana-rich Madagascar, where a monkey waited for Melanie. Melanie's mom paid the keeper the slightly surprisingly low rate of $2.54 for the small, gangly, non-skunk-looking creature. Feeling satisfied with her savings, but not quite so excited for her little Krimm's sour reaction, Mrs. Krimm carted the little, wide-eyed monkey all the way home.

Melanie, still sulking, did not greet her mother with her usual precocious vivacity. She sulked over to the couch, and sulked right into the seat next to the monkey. She was sulking with so much intentional--

"I'm not sulking! I'm mourning the loss of all my childhood dreams!" cried the overdramatic almost seven-year-old. "And I'm not overdramatic."

"What's that, dear?" inquired her mother. "Are you talking to your monkey?"

"Monkey?!" exclaimed the half-horrified, half-incredibly-confused Melanie.

With a quizzical look that Melanie barely allowed on her face, she glanced at the non-skunk out of the very corner of her eye. The monkey smiled a wonderfully monkey smile.

"Do you even know what berries are?" Melanie demanded.

Of course the monkey did not yet know this fruit, for bananas had occupied his mind since his birth 15 1/2 days previous. However, the monkey liked her--with or without the understanding that food would be provided. He wanted desperately to tell her that his name was Ivan, but it was to no avail as he did not speak this strange human language--

"I wish I'd known your name was Ivan before I named you O'Malley," Melanie said, exasperated by the language barrier.




To be continued...