It was dusk when they came down from their trees to investigate. They spread across the garden, sniffing leaves so rich in color they appeared to retract the fading light. The monkeys began with curiosity, examining the roots and finding peanuts. They moved on to a row of pineapples, a prickly plant whose serrated edges did not say welcome. The monkeys, small magicians, reached soft hands into the hearts and pulled out ripening fruit. They approached the corn, still too young. The stalks offered up nothing. The harvest was over, but the monkeys gave themselves over to the tactile delights of annihilating a garden. They scrambled over the rows, leaving the plants above the earth that once embraced them.

“Well, so much for that,” my father said as he stepped into the kitchen through the back door. He rested one hand against the wall and leaned down to untie his shoes. “The garden’s gone.”

“What?” my mother said. She stood at the stove over a pot of beans. To her right, avocados teetered on the chopping board.

“You’re going to love this,” my father said, the pleasure of getting to tell the story already taking some of the edge off his disappointment. “The monkeys came in and harvested everything. And when I say everything, I mean everything. They pulled up the plants, just to see what was on the other side.”

“Oh Gary,” my mother said. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

Later, my father rummaged through the garage until he found a slingshot. He took it outside and walked about the yard, head tipped toward the earth. He did not take many steps before he stopped, reached down and picked a smooth stone. He tossed it in one hand, testing the weight. He hadn’t used a slingshot since he was a teenager, shooting (and missing) coots, a practice he and his friends abandoned as soon as the girls noticed and disapproved. My father faced the jungle, hand full of stone, and he searched the trees for a victim. He hoped only to scare off the monkeys, to be able to grow corn and peanuts, to harvest a few jackfruit. He skimmed the surface of the trees until his eyes rested on a monkey who had been preening on a low branch. She looked up, and they considered each other. The monkey was sleek, with a tan body, white chest. She was the size of a housecat and more curious. She scratched her back and watched as my father placed the stone in the sling, held it up, and closed one eye. The aim was nearly good and the monkey screamed as the rock slashed a nearby leaf. She rushed into the jungle, moving with a one-two swagger. My father smiled in the hollow of our yard and listened as the sound of breaking twigs traveled into the jungle, grew distant and disappeared.

The monkeys go nowhere. They learn only to know when my father carries his slingshot and when he doesn’t. When he carries it, they slip away in deference to his aim and range, returning as soon as the screen door slaps behind him. When he doesn’t carry the slingshot, they stay in the trees and chatter. The sounds drifting down are not alarmed, like the calls that warn of a mamba; they are just neighborly noises, with perhaps a hint of ridicule. We are smarter than you think. Which is not exactly true; my parents have begun to think that the monkeys are evil geniuses.