Bath time was supposed to be simple. One small monkey. One bucket of warm water. One towel. Easy, right?
Wrong—especially when that monkey is Cubis.
Cubis may be small, but he packs the energy of nine monkeys in one fuzzy body. From the moment he heard the water running, he knew what was coming, and he made it very clear: he did not approve.
I had just set everything up—gentle soap, soft sponge, and a warm basin filled with bubbles. The sun was shining, the mood was peaceful. But the moment Cubis saw the towel? Game over.
He bolted.
Around the room, onto the table, up the curtain, back down, under the chair—like a tiny tornado in motion. Every time I got close, he gave me a cheeky grin and darted the other way. It wasn’t just bath time—it was a full-blown comedy show.
After a solid five minutes of high-speed chasing, I finally caught him mid-air (don’t worry, no monkeys were harmed). He squealed and wiggled, but I cradled him close and whispered, “It’s just water, Cubis. You’ll smell much nicer, I promise.”
With a dramatic sigh, he finally gave in.
I dipped him into the warm water, and the drama continued. First, there was the splash—he kicked so hard, water flew out of the tub like a mini fountain. Then came the monkey noises: little grumbles, tiny squeals, even a huff or two. It was like he was giving a speech about injustice—in monkey language.
But slowly, the warm water started to work its magic.
His squeals faded into quiet hums, his eyes blinked sleepily, and his tiny hands relaxed. I rubbed his back with soft soap, watching the dirt (and bits of banana) melt away. The fluff began to return to his fur, and he looked less like a jungle gremlin and more like the cute Cubis everyone loves.
By the time the bath was over, he was nearly asleep in my hands. I wrapped him in a towel burrito and carried him to the sunniest spot near the window. There he sat, bundled up like a baby, blinking slowly, clean and peaceful at last.
