A Candid Letter to the Two Pygmy Marmoset Babies Who Live on My Left Index and Middle Fingers

Dear Baby Marmosets,

Look at you there, all curled up and peaceful. It has been three-and-a-half weeks now since we have come together, and I cannot tell a lie: they have been three-and-a-half of the most special weeks of my life. Were someone to ask me, "what has been your most special consecutive three-and-a-half week period during your life thus far?", I am not ashamed to say that this would come very close to the top of that category.

You came into my life during a brief trip to Peru, where, while resting my hand on a tree during a hike, you apparently mistook my fingers for small branches. The sight of your oblivious faces clinging so tenaciously to my digits warmed my embittered heart, and I smuggled you back to my native country by concealing my hand in a large mitten.

I must be honest with you, however, marmosets:

I have decided to leave you on the bonzai tree in my dentist's office.

Perhaps I had not thought this partnership through as fully as was needed, and for this, I apologize. Though my love for you both is as strong as it ever was, it appears fated by the gods that we must part by my next dentist's appointment.

For the most part, I have adapted well to your presence. For example, I carry a damp cloth in my pocket at all times with which I can promptly wipe any and all of your tiny bodily wastes that trickle down onto my palm. Also, I am right handed, so meeting people and shaking hands has never been a problem, nor has hugging people (I like to think you two are included in the hug!) Unfortunately, there are other, more pressing inconveniences that I have not been able to overlook.

For instance, I have a strong love for playing baseball, and though you both fit snugly into the finger holes of my mitt, I admit I have been shirking my duties in right field for fear of a perfect catch crushing your supple little spines. The team has noticed this and, needless to say, they are not pleased.

For the same reason, I am no longer able to flip people off. This is an inconvenience. Making a peace sign is, at those particular moments, conveying the opposite message.

Also, the amount of drunken fistfights I am able to partake in has drastically been reduced. Some may say this is a positive thing, though I am not yet convinced. Just two evenings ago, a gentleman at a bar inquired as to "what I was looking at," and, as you may or may not know, words do not often serve well in such a situation.

Moreover, my digital hygiene was beginning to suffer, as I feared for your lives whenever I attempted to approach those fingers with a nail clipper.

Allow me to stop myself before I go on for too long. My intention here is not to spoil the beautiful time we have spent together in this symbiotic relationship. I provided you with tree gum for your tender mouths and something for your adorable little claws to grasp to, while you provided me with priceless companionship and a wonderful alternative to cotton swabs.

I merely wish to inform you that, come Monday, you will find yourselves grasping an imported tree in the office of a dental surgeon. There you will no doubt find sustenance from its bark. Unfortunately, due to the sterile environment in the office, I cannot guarantee the presence of ants, grubs, or caterpillars, though you will never want for water or nitrous oxide.

I am terribly sorry that this could not be forever. I loved you like my very fingers themselves. But I have made my decision and cannot turn back.

Let us please enjoy the rest of this week together. I have wonderful things planned for us; activities that I won't spoil in this letter. Still, come Monday, when no one is looking, I will pry you off my fingers and place you on a decorative tree.

I am certain that, given the circumstances, your birth mother would have wanted as much.

Sincerely,
Dad