Baby monkey Shala burst into loud cries the moment daddy tried to take the milk bottle away. The bottle was still heavy, still warm, and in Shala’s mind, that meant it was not finished. Her tiny face twisted with anger, brows furrowed, mouth wide open as she protested with sharp, furious screams.
She grabbed at the bottle with both hands, pulling it back toward her chest. Her legs kicked, her body stiffened, and her tail flicked in pure temper. This was her milk, her comfort, her safety. Daddy’s gentle hand felt like a threat in that moment, even though he only wanted to slow her down.
Shala cried harder, shaking her head side to side, refusing to let go. Milk dribbled down her chin as she tried to drink and scream at the same time. Her eyes were wet, not just with anger, but with fear that the bottle might disappear before she was ready.
Daddy stayed calm. He spoke softly, wiping her mouth and holding her close. Slowly, he tilted the bottle away, just a little, letting her pause to breathe. Shala screamed again, louder this time, then suddenly stopped, panting, exhausted by her own emotions.
Realizing she was still being held, still safe, her cries softened into grumpy whimpers. Daddy returned the bottle gently, letting her drink more slowly. This time, she accepted it, clutching it tightly, glaring up at him as if warning him not to try that again.
As the milk level dropped, Shala’s body finally relaxed. Her eyelids drooped. The anger melted into tired comfort. She kept one hand on the bottle, one hand gripping daddy’s shirt, just in case.
For Shala, the tantrum wasn’t about being naughty. It was about control, trust, and fear of loss. And in daddy’s patient arms, she learned—slowly—that she didn’t have to fight to be cared for.
