Anna, a senior primate keeper, had known “Copa” for 15 years. He was the sanctuary’s oldest resident, a 45-year-old chimp rescued from a bankrupt roadside zoo where he’d lived his life in a small, concrete cage.
He was always nervous, always wary of new people. Anna was the only one he ever truly trusted.
But in the last month, Copa’s health had plummeted. His old body was shutting down. For the last 48 hours, he hadn’t eaten. He wouldn’t even take water from the staff. He just sat in the corner of the habitat, facing the wall.
The vet team said it was time. There was nothing more they could do, and he was clearly in discomfort.
Anna couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t let him die thinking he was alone in a cage again. She grabbed a soft comb—an interaction he’d always loved—and did something she wasn’t supposed to do. She entered the enclosure and sat on the ground, pulling his frail, thin body into her lap.
He was so light. He let out a long, tired sigh and leaned his head against her. For the first time in two days, his body relaxed.
Anna, her own voice thick with tears, started to gently comb the thin gray hair on his head.
“Hey old man,” she whispered, her heart breaking. “I’ve got you. It’s okay. I know, I know. You’re tired. You’re safe now, all right? I’m right here.”
He wasn’t an exhibit. He was an old friend who was scared, and she was promising to stay with him until the very end.