A few years ago, several of our children were off on one trip or another, giving Sherry and me the rare opportunity to take a short getaway with just our eldest daughter.
It was nice to be spontaneous—to just head out for a few days with no destination in mind. Unfortunately, we had our lovely Bella to consider. Reluctant to leave her at a doggy hotel or with a sitter, we decided to bring her along. That meant spontaneity was out the window. We now needed accommodations that accepted dogs—not the purse-sized kind, but a full-grown herder like Bella.
We settled on heading north. There was a decent motel about 150 miles away that welcomed dogs of all shapes and sizes. We took our time, stopped here and there, and rolled in around dinner.
After we ate, I took Bella for her evening walk along a designated pet path behind the motel. Clearly, this place catered to dog lovers—it was a well-groomed trail right next to our room. Other guests were out walking their pets, too.
One in particular caught my eye. A large man was standing patiently while his leashed animal did its business. The leash was stretched to its full length, and the animal was at the very end of it. Classic dog behavior.
Except—it wasn’t a dog.
When the creature finished and returned to the man, it reached up and grabbed his hand.
Grabbed it.
With fingers.
This dark animal at the end of the leash had arms, hands, and bowed legs. It was a monkey. A chimpanzee.
Well, the place did cater to animal lovers.
Bella, meanwhile, discovered a patch of chimp poo and immediately lost her mind. Perplexed, excited, and slightly alarmed, she stayed close to my side for the rest of the walk, circling nervously like a satellite with fur.
As we came around to the front of the motel, I noticed several vehicles fitted with cages—rear doors open for airflow. No lights. I couldn’t tell which one housed our new primate friend, and frankly, there were several options.
Bella was no help. She was still emotionally spiraling.
At one particular van, a large cage filled the entire back compartment. I thought I saw the chimp huddled in the corner. I crept closer, trying to confirm—when the huddled form exploded forward, slamming against the cage just inches from my face.
It happened so fast my brain hadn’t finished sending the “jump back!” command to my legs. So I just… fell. Straight down. Because Bella, ever loyal and now ever-tangled, had managed to wrap the leash around my legs like a calf at a rodeo.
That’s when I saw the eyes. Yellow-green. The streetlights lit the silhouette: large head, flattened ears, and a low, guttural hiss.
Not a chimp.
A panther.
A full-grown panther.
Thank God the cage was locked.
The next morning, I was roused from a deep sleep by a gentle shake and a not-so-gentle order: “Get your camera.”
Apparently, Sherry and our daughter had found something outside. “There’s a guy with a panther on a leash, and a monkey messing with the panther’s tail!”
“Hmmm,” I muttered. “I think I’ll just get a few more winks.”
“What?! It’s a perfect photo op! They’re trained movie animals. They love being photographed. You’re a photographer.”
They were not wrong. But I’m also a man with a well-documented distrust of large cats. Still, there it was—a perfect setup. So I grabbed my camera and went out to meet destiny.
I found them in the parking lot: a large fake rock formation, the chimp at the top, the panther just below. The chimp, mischievous as ever, was tugging at the panther’s tail. The panther, unsurprisingly, was livid—snarling, flashing white fangs, claws extended. The big man from the night before was struggling to hold him back with what looked like a motorcycle-grade chain.
I began snapping a few photos—poorly composed, truthfully. It was hard to focus when the subject had a kill radius.
Then the panther paused. Calculated. Realized the limitations of his chain.
That’s when he looked at me.
And I saw it: recognition.
That’s the guy from last night.
There was also—let’s call it a food assessment. Fortunately, he and I did the math at the same time. Chain length, arc of motion, point of impact… I was just out of reach.
His eyes blinked.
He turned back to the monkey.
I took two more photos and backed away slowly—always facing the cat—until I was out of his radius and behind the motel.
Later, my family asked how it went. I told them the truth.
They were not surprised.
They thought it would be “fun.”
They said the photos would be “great.”
I love them. Even if they don’t always listen to me.
