Domestic tranquility

This morning Marian woke me up just before dawn to tell me that one of the apes had gotten outside again. I lifted up the window shade a bit and, sure enough, there it was resting on its haunches on the lawn, looking over a wilted dandelion it had found amid the grass.

It didn't take long to persuade it to come back inside — it never does. By the time we got through the doorway its fellow had roused itself and stared at us mutely as we came into the kitchen. The apes ambled down the hall to their room and I started making tea. "Marian," I said, "you know we can't keep them here anymore. They'll have to go back." She nodded. Neither of us said exactly what "go back" might mean, and perhaps we didn't know.