Every afternoon, right after lunch, it was bath time for the baby monkeys. Caregivers would line up the little ones near the river, scrubbing each furry belly and tiny tail until they gleamed like sunshine. Bella, Coco, Mino, and Zazu would sit (mostly) still, squeaky clean and smelling like mango leaves.
But the sparkle never lasted long.
No sooner had they dried off and hopped back to the clearing than—splat!—Bella dove belly-first into the soft, warm mud. Coco followed, rolling like a cinnamon bun. Mino kicked up a cloud of dust, while Zazu gleefully threw pawfuls of dirt in the air like confetti.
It was their favorite part of the day. Clean fur was boring. Muddy fur was fun.
“They just got clean!” sighed Luma, the oldest caregiver, shaking her head.
“It’s like they wait to get dirty again,” grumbled Tamu, watching Zazu climb a tree and dive into a pile of leaves.
But the troop knew—this was just how baby monkeys learned. By touching, tumbling, slipping, and sliding. For them, every dirt patch was a playground, every mud puddle a science experiment.
After all, how would they learn the best way to sneak up on a beetle if they didn’t get a little muddy? How would they practice their ninja jumps without rolling in the dust?
So, each day, the bath came again. And each day, so did the mess. But in between the soap and the soil, the babies grew stronger, smarter, and a little more clever.
And even Luma had to admit—there was something joyful in the wild, muddy chaos of it all.
