Given an old magazine, Woo would turn the pages till she found a picture, then make a long staring pause. I wondered whether the monkey recognized objects in the flat. I gave her a book of high-coloured monkey pictures; she was not interested. Just turning the pages seemed to please her. One day she ate half my dictionary, drank a bottle of ink, and chewed up my pen. I was mistrustful of Woo’s literary…
Ginger Pop took fits and died. A perplexed Woo searched garden, basement, and Studio. Old Koko relaxed now that there was no one for him to vanquish. Woo was without a dog chum. Both creatures found life flavourless. As the months rolled by they drew a little closer on the hearth rug. By and by Woo’s small quick hands were parting, arranging Koko’s hair as they had done Ginger’s. The old dog liked it.
I sat by the Studio fire patching one of Woo’s dresses; the dogs and monkey were sprawled round, sleeping. Woo sat up, stretched first one leg and then the other, yawned—every hair on her body stood at attention; she shook a great shake, beginning at her nose and ending at tail-tip. When every vibrating hair had settled into sleek oneness again, she jumped to the arm of my chair and scrutinized the needle going…