I haven’t seen the Baron since last Friday when that nasty squirrel claimed my yard, waiting for our plums to get ripe. I would have gladly shared those plums with the Baron, but then if he didn’t like my eggs, I’m not sure he’d appreciate the fruit either. I keep looking for him every morning but I will always have the memory of my transient beautiful pet. He’s not the first exotic pet in my life.  When I was ten, my mother let me get a monkey. Oh, yes she did! What was she thinking? I begged and begged, “If I can have a monkey, I’ll never ask for anything again for the rest of my life!” It was a complete disaster. It was a squirrel monkey and I refused to keep him in a cage – that would be no fun. The first time I let him out, this thing flew – and I mean FLEW like he had wings… across the kitchen, knocking over cups and glasses and food, and frankly, scaring the hell out of me. Luckily, the pet store had a return policy (probably standard for monkeys and pythons). I had a little more sense when I was younger. At nine, my dad let me get a little bunny rabbit. Every kid wants a bunny rabbit at Easter time. But things didn’t go well for “Sniffles.” I had fun with him for a while but once he got bigger and fatter, my dad cooked him. I didn’t strike me as odd but even this neighbor’s kid knew something was up. Those zombie eyes were trying to warn me…. “I see dead rabbits.”