Does the 20 minute login make the bloggin any sweeter?

I wanted Bubu to compose this blog, but she would only chew on the pen and stare at me, but still, holding the pen more or less correctly, as if to say, "I could, you know". If Bubu could write it, if she could think about anything beyond who to steal her next guava from, I think she wouldn't lament being ripped from a tree as a baby and thrust into the civilization of a village. I think she'd tell you she's glad to be a pet; she's getting fat, not Walmart fat, but monkey fat, a little round around the middle, and she gets loads more attention this way, leaving the quiet anonymity of the bush. She's the source and recipient of much amusement this way. It's hard to miss your home, she would say, the habits she used to know, but she's learned a lot sneaking her way between the homes of the unsuspecting objects of her study. She'll never fit in of course, her chatter doesn't register, but if she could find a way to express herself, imagine.