MORNING 3rd December 22: I Take Towel Away So That Carlo Can Make Friends, But He Cries
It was a fresh, golden morning on the 3rd of December, 2022. The sun had just risen over the trees, casting soft light onto the little enclosure where Carlo, the baby macaque, was gently waking up. Wrapped tightly in his favorite towel, Carlo peeked out with sleepy eyes. That towel had been his comfort since the first day of his rescue—his soft shield from the big, noisy world around him.
For days, Carlo had clung to the towel like a lifeline. It smelled like the caretakers, it felt like warmth and safety, and it was his only constant companion. But as each day passed, we began to notice something: Carlo was avoiding the other baby monkeys. While Jovi, Lily, and Mico played and jumped together, Carlo stayed in a quiet corner, curled in his towel, watching them from afar.
We knew he needed friends. Monkeys are social creatures, and baby macaques learn everything—how to play, how to groom, how to survive—through interaction. Hiding away wasn’t helping him grow.
So that morning, with a deep breath and a hopeful heart, I gently reached for his towel.
“Come on, sweet boy,” I whispered, trying to keep my voice calm. “Let’s try something new today.”
As I slowly pulled the towel away, Carlo blinked, confused at first. Then his little hands reached out, trying to hold onto it. But I continued, softly, hoping he would understand. Once the towel was out of his grip, I placed it to the side and gave him a gentle pat on the back.
At first, he just sat there, stunned. His eyes looked around nervously, as if everything had suddenly become too bright, too big, too unfamiliar. And then it happened.
He cried.
Not a loud, angry cry—but a soft, heartbroken whimper. His face wrinkled, and tears welled up in his big brown eyes. He looked around, searching for the towel, crawling a few steps and reaching toward where I had set it. It was as if I had taken away his only friend.
My heart broke.
I knelt beside him and stroked his back, whispering softly again, “It’s okay, Carlo. You’re not alone. Look—your friends are here. Go on, baby. You can do it.”
Jovi, ever the curious little monkey, came bouncing over. He stopped a few inches from Carlo, tilting his head and chattering as if to say, “Wanna play?” Lily followed close behind, holding a stick like a toy and dropping it gently near Carlo. It was an invitation—an unspoken, innocent gesture of welcome.
Carlo looked at them, unsure.
His little body trembled, but he didn’t move away. That was the first sign. Minutes passed. He didn’t cry again, just sat quietly, looking between the towel and the other babies. Slowly, Jovi moved closer and touched Carlo’s shoulder. Lily groomed a patch of fur on his back. Bit by bit, the wall around Carlo began to melt.
I watched in silence, tears in my own eyes. The towel had been his safety, yes. But maybe now, friendship could become his new comfort.
Later that morning, Carlo still glanced at the towel every now and then. But he didn’t run back to it. He stayed with Jovi and Lily, even mimicking a tiny hop like them. He was still shy, still scared—but he had taken his first step into monkey life.
And so, on that memorable morning of 3rd December 2022, I took the towel away. It made him cry. But it also gave him the space to find something better: connection.
And that’s the tender truth about growing up, for monkeys and for us—it hurts sometimes, but it opens the door to something beautiful.
