Mico the Marmoset

Tourists think it never gets cold in Orlando, Florida. But local folks know how that wet cold, with drizzly rain that can go on for days, is bone-chilling bleak. Even the monkey, a Central American marmoset the size of a person’s hand, knows better. At the first hint of a cold January shower, he seems to want to hibernate in his man-made nest: it is a woolen sock nestled in a heating pad set on low and fitted into a sall box.

Max puts down his pen and reaches for a sweater. He glances over at Mico, whose bright eyes follow his every move. “Warm now?” Max said. “That’s a lot better than the straw coat you were wearing when I found you in that bar in Tegucigalpa last year. Not to mention that ridiculous little hat they made you wear.

A half/truth half/fiction bit of fluff.

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