Baby monkey Shala cried desperately, her tiny body shaking as hunger took full control. The moment she smelled milk nearby, her instincts exploded. Her cries grew sharp and urgent, echoing with need. She trembled from head to toe, little arms stretching forward, fingers opening and closing as if trying to grab comfort from the air.
Shala’s eyes were wide and glossy, fixed only on the bottle. Nothing else mattered. Not the room, not the voices, not the gentle attempts to calm her. Hunger burned inside her small belly, making her whine louder, her breath uneven. Each cry sounded more frantic than the last, as though time itself was moving too slowly for her pain.
Her body shook harder when the bottle didn’t reach her fast enough. She kicked weakly, whimpering between cries, mouth opening again and again in anticipation. This wasn’t just hunger. It was fear. Fear that the milk might disappear, fear that relief wouldn’t come. For a baby so small, waiting felt unbearable.
When Daddy finally lifted her, Shala clung tightly, crying directly toward the bottle. Her lips searched desperately, trembling with urgency. The moment warm milk touched her mouth, she latched on fiercely, drinking as if she had been starving for days. Her cries stopped instantly, replaced by fast, desperate gulps.
Milk dribbled down her chin as she drank, shaking slowly easing into stillness. Her body relaxed inch by inch. The tension melted from her face, though her grip remained tight, afraid the bottle might leave again. Daddy held her carefully, letting her drink at her own pace, watching every swallow.
Soon, her shaking stopped completely. Her breathing slowed. Her eyes softened. Hunger gave way to comfort, fear to safety. She leaned into Daddy’s chest, still drinking, now calm and quiet.
Shala wasn’t greedy or dramatic. She was a baby whose body spoke before words ever could. Her shaking cries were her only language, saying one thing clearly: I need milk. I need comfort. I need love.
And in Daddy’s arms, she finally had all three.
