George sat on a rock dismembering the rat. 

I sat in front of his cage on a hot Saturday afternoon, hungover -- August 25th, 1979, 2:16 P.M., 103 ^o.  I had a migraine.  The cage cleaners didn’t work on weekends.  I was hung over and my stomach lurched, upset by last night’s abuse and by the odor of sun-roasted feces.  The horsefly on my nose surfed rivulets of sweat coursing from my brow in the San Antonio sun.  My eyes stung from the salt.

I was doing hard time.

“Why did I take this job?” I castigated myself.  “And why did I take that day off last week and promise to make it up this weekend?”

Cynocephalus Baboon

The job had seemed such a find two years ago:  “Assistant Research Scientist, Primatology Laboratory.”  The title had an attractive ring to it, conjuring up visions of my transformation into Sharon-The-Scientist.  Fresh from the University of Texas at San Antonio with a bachelor’s degree in psychology, the job offer from Tony C. had promised redemption—a way to demonstrate to my family that going back to college at the age of 33 had not been a waste, after all.

I squirmed in my tall observer’s deck chair, shifting, trying to settle my butt comfortably on the taut blue canvas seat.  I tugged my wide-brimmed straw hat down further around my ears, seeking refuge from the afternoon glare. 

Meanwhile, George was working assiduously on the rat, eyed by at least 10 other rapt baboons.  All the while, I captured their behavior for posterity, my fingers flying over the Datamyte Recorder cradled in my elbow--a small battery-operated computer with a numeric keyboard arranged like the keys on an adding machine.  By now, I had been watching baboons for almost two years--long enough to be able to take coded data on their behavior in my sleep.

89*423*1234 - (George pulls other animal)

89*289 - (George sits)

73*201*89 - (Claud hits George)

73*423*1234 - (Claud pulls other animal)

About that time, the rat reached the limits of its tensile strength and gave way, first into two parts, then into 10, as the rest of the troop rushed in to claim their share of the delicacy.  I adored them, but, secretly, I couldn’t get over my anthropomorphism.

Like a mama with her beloved unruly children at the park, I anguished over their less savory behaviors.   Baboons were so wonderful, almost awe-inspiring--but how could you ever get anyone to believe it if they were going to act like that!

A familiar unbidden question crossed my mind, regular as clockwork:   “George, Claud, …..how could you?”

-- closely followed by my customary soundless lecture to myself:  “My God, Sharon, they are just baboons.  This is natural for them, just like you eating tacos whenever you can get your hands on them.”  The entire troop sat there munching, some with tell-tale red smears on their muzzles and cheek pouches. 

Martha, the dominant female, finished off her tidbit, casually picked her teeth with her fingernail, and cast a longing but hopeless glance at Claud, knowing full well that the likelihood of him sharing his meat was nil.  Papio cynocephalus was not a food-sharing breed. 

Claud bristled slightly, raising the yellow and black hair on the back of his neck.  Taking the hint, Martha got up, slowly sauntered across the cement floor to the front of the enclosure where the feeding trough was, and dipped her hand into the Purina Monkey Chow, pulling out a few large chunks and stuffing them in her mouth.  She chewed them in a dilatory fashion, brushed some flies away from her eyes, then spit the food on the ground.  Baboon kibble held little charm after the thrill of fresh rat.

Just then, the alarm on the recorder went off, buzzing the end of my 10-minute focal animal test.  I looked at my log, gratefully thinking:  “Thank God, I’ve made up my 10 sampling periods—I can go back to the lab and dump my data and get out of this damned heat.”  I folded my heavy white oak observer’s chair and hoisted it under my arm, balancing it with practiced ease on my hip while carrying the Datamyte carefully.  Maybe I had a Coke left in the refrigerator in the lab.

The night before, we had a pot-luck party at Paul’s house.  I had taken a pan of my famous lasagna and also brought two large bottles of Aunt Marie’s home-made Washington State blackberry wine.  All of the observers in the ethology lab got together around once a month, feeding greedily on one another’s scratch cooking, exchanging relaxed small talk about spouses, girlfriends, boyfriends and then invariably digressing to bragging on the exploits of “our” animals.  Last night, however, seduced by Aunt Marie’s wine, we had focused with increasingly inebriated amusement on Paul’s dilemma. 

Our host had an anonymous admirer. For two months, Paul had been awakened once or twice a week in the middle of the night by the ringing of the phone.  The first time it happened, he said, he was so sleepy and disoriented that he thought it was his brother calling, and trying to summon his wits, had cordially welcomed the caller with a friendly tone of voice.  “Oh, so glad to hear from you, guy.  What’s up?”

Gradually, as the caller spoke, Paul realized this was not his sibling—it was the deep bass voice of a complete stranger describing in alarming detail exactly what he could offer Paul when he finally got him alone--all attentions that Paul, single and straight, would have welcomed eagerly had the caller only been a female. 

By now, Paul, slender and shy, was starting to worry.  Was the guy a nut?  Could he be violent?  Would Paul come home some evening and find Ernest Borgnine with a hatchet waiting for him in a frothy pink tutu?  Paul was starting to sweat. He was frightened, yet afraid to go to the police, anticipating--with some justice it seemed, given our risible reaction--becoming the laughing-stock of the station house. 

His fellow observers were of little assistance, practically rolling on the floor with glee at the irony of his plight.  I couldn’t restrain myself:  I reminded him that only in June he had been crying on my shoulder about his lack of a romantic life, a confidence to which I had offhandedly responded that it was time for him to “take matters in hand,” embarrassing even myself, when I realized just what I had said.   But Paul was so timid.  We had all been trying to tell him he needed to be more forward with women.

Remembering the fun we had teasing Paul, a hint of a smile lit my face as I approached the lab.  Daydreaming, my attention diverted, I tripped over a leg of the deck chair, which had somehow managed to find its way between my feet.  I landed with a thud on the gravel drive.   The damn chair came undone, necessitating yet another wrestling session to get it back together once I got up and brushed myself off. 

My head throbbed.  My mood darkened and I threw a rancorous look at Tony’s empty office, consigning my boss to the furthest reaches of hell.  “And, you too, Aunt Marie,” I thought.  “What in God’s name did you put in that wine?”