I hadn’t heard of Jungle Friends three years ago. In the summer of 2000, my daughter Julie told me about volunteer work she was doing at a primate sanctuary north of Gainesville. She told stories of her adventures with little seven-pound capuchin monkeys who were irresistibly sweet but tried to scalp her when she walked beneath their overhead passes. They yanked the buttons off her shirt when she got too close to their habitats.

I had to see this place.

On my first visit, I met Cappy—an encounter I’ll never forget. Cappy screamed with delight as I approached his habitat. Reaching through the mesh, he held my hand close to his chest, searching my eyes with his. His happy screams continued for about five minutes, punctuated with contented “who-who-who” sounds now and then. He stole my heart.

Kari gave me the run of the place that day because she was distracted and upset by a broken pump at the well. An engineer had just looked at the pump and given her a repair estimate that ran to thousands of dollars. The monkeys needed water—right away. Tears ran down Kari’s cheeks as she said to me, “Where will I ever get the money?”

I asked if I could make a donation. After I wrote out a modest check, Kari told me about the Sponsor-A-Monkey program. I went home and thought it over. That’s when I made a commitment of fifty dollars a month to be Cappy’s “silver sponsor,” which pays for half his upkeep. Sponsors, Kari told me, are the lifeline at Jungle Friends.

When I retired a year ago and was faced with living on a fixed income, I had to cut back my donations to animal welfare groups. I had been giving to Humane Farming, ASPCA, National Wildlife Federation, and a number of other animal rights organizations. My retirement funds were shrinking from the impact of a bad market. Should I give up my commitment to Jungle Friends? Give only when I had extra cash?

A phone conversation with my other daughter, Amy, a veterinarian in Oklahoma who visits Jungle Friends when she comes to Gainesville, decided matters for me. Amy relayed a conversation she had with Kari at her last visit.

Kari told Amy that Cappy has a special place in his heart for me because I came into his life at a time when he needed a friend. He’d just been brought to Jungle Friends from Las Vegas, where he’d lived in isolation for five years in an outdoor cage, exposed to the elements. His small, barren cage had a concrete floor, no toys, and no blankets. It faced a block wall, so poor Cappy didn’t even have a view to enjoy.

At the time, Cappy was almost 30. Before spending five years in the desert, he’d been in the care of a married couple all his life who loved him. Cappy had a mate for 15 years and together they became parents. Unfortunately, Cappy’s baby died, his mate died and then one of Cappy’s owners passed away and soon afterward the other became ill and moved to a nursing home.

After his arrival at Jungle Friends, Cappy adapted quickly. He loved the warm, moist climate in Florida, and no longer suffered from frequent nosebleeds as he did in the Nevada desert. He began the process of socialization with other capuchins. Because he’d lived with other monkeys earlier in life, he was able to make friends with some of his capuchin neighbors over the months after his arrival. When I first met him, though, he was still alone.

In three years, Cappy has become known as a friendly, likable fellow in the monkey community. The last time I visited, he shared living quarters with Gizmo—a nice enough guy with humans but a terror with the other monkeys, according to Kari. Only “Happy Cappy” gets along with him.

Kari has been telling me since my early days of sponsorship that I’m special to Cappy. To be honest, I thought she was being her usual gracious self, making me feel wanted. But when Amy told me about her conversation with Kari, I decided that Cappy and I really did have a special relationship. So, scaling down my contributions to Jungle Friends was not an option. Cutting back expenses is one thing. Abandoning friends is another. After all, every time I visit, Cappy ignores any treats I’ve brought, preferring to grin and scream his affection, hold my hand, and gaze in my eyes. (In the meantime, his buddies are grabbing the treats.) Now that’s a friend.