Baby monkey Shala cried with all the strength her tiny body could find, her voice sharp and urgent as she called again and again for milk time. She had just woken up, her eyes still heavy with sleep, but her stomach burned with hunger. To Shala, the world felt wrong the moment she realized the bottle was not there.
She sat trembling, little hands opening and closing, mouth wide as she screamed toward the place where dad usually appeared. Each cry grew louder, more desperate, filled with impatience and need. Tears streamed down her cheeks, soaking her soft fur as her body leaned forward, begging without words.
Shala wasn’t just hungry—she was scared. Milk meant comfort. Milk meant safety. Without it, her heart raced, and panic took over. She kicked her legs angrily and shook her head, her cries echoing through the room like a siren. Every second felt too long for a baby who could not wait.
Dad hurried toward her, worried by the intensity of her cries. When Shala saw him, she cried even louder, arms stretching out, eyes locked on his hands. She knew milk was close, and that made the waiting even harder. Her whole body shook with emotion, hunger mixing with frustration.
Finally, the warm bottle appeared. Shala let out one last broken cry before latching on desperately. She drank fast, almost angrily, as if afraid it might disappear again. Milk dribbled down her chin, but she didn’t stop. Her breathing slowly steadied, and the tension in her tiny body began to melt away.
The cries faded into soft gulps. Her eyes half-closed, and her grip relaxed. Hunger released its hold, replaced by warmth and relief. Shala leaned into the moment, calm at last.
She wasn’t dramatic. She wasn’t spoiled. She was just a baby who needed milk on time. And when she finally got it, peace returned to her little heart.
