There’s this pet store near a theatre that I have worked for on many occasions. I love this pet store. They let you pet puppies, and there’s a monkey. I know you’re probably saying, “Megan, don’t you care about animal rights? Aren’t you enraged by puppy farms and animals living in cages?” and in theory, yes I am. I am horribly angry about the whole system. But in reality, there is an ice cream shop next to the puppy store, so you can go cuddle puppies and eat ice cream between shows. I am not strong enough to resist that amount of joy.
At one time, that pet store also had lemurs, and if you paid the little fee, you could go into the lemur habitat and feed them. This was something I had to do! How many times in life does someone offer you the chance to pet a lemur?
There were two lemurs in the habitat: a boy and a girl. My husband and I went in together. The girl liked him, and the boy liked me. They ate from our hands, and the boy lemur stuck his tongue farther up my nose than I ever thought possible. My sinuses were very clear after his careful care. Seriously, next time you have a stuffy nose, find a lemur!
But then the girl lemur decided I was trying to steal her man and decided to scratch me. I got in a cat fight with a jealous lemur! It wasn’t too bad. My cats had done much worse to me just leaping out of my lap to eat, but still, I came out of the habitat with a lemur war wound. If you look very carefully at my hand, you can see the lemur scars.
I also have a great new scar from the stinkin’ cobbler incident of 2014. The lemur story is worth the scar, but a story as lame as “I burned myself on cobbler” doesn’t make up for the mark on my arm.