I first saw him in magazine ads:
chiseled face + handlebar mustache + a thousand yard stare= badass.
Often, two smiling, beautiful people would be to his sides,
connected to his coolness, validated by his sophistication.
I couldn’t wait to have one.

An adjustment period comes with having a pet—sacrifices must be made.
People say things like, “I never figured him as a monkey person…”
and you become part of the pet owner’s subculture.
He stinks up the house a bit, but I never have to lay down newspaper.
Like I said, sacrifices must be made.

We soon develop a symbiotic relationship:
when I wake up, he is next to me…
I pick him up after every meal…
I take him for walks on my breaks from work…
Ozzie & Harriet…
Michael & Bubbles…
Frankie Beverly & Maze—
“We Are One”.

Anyhow, eleven years pass and he gets huge.
It’s becoming harder to carry him the less I think of it.
My pet develops a penchant for climbing skyscrapers,
a proclivity towards abducting white women,
but he is always there for me.

I wouldn’t call him high maintenance,
but caring for a silver-back gorilla can be expensive.
Nonetheless, he is well-fed;
the money I spend is Chiquita.
I kiss his ****, sure…everyone that knows him does.

I have to get rid of him
and it will break my heart.
You can’t take a gorilla to the pound
and they won’t read Dear John letters,
but something must be done.
If I don’t **** him
sooner or later, he will **** me…
he has become a wild animal after all.

A pet is never more dangerous than its owner.