Early morning sunlight filtered softly through the leaves, painting golden patterns on the forest floor. It was the quietest time of day, when even the birds seemed to whisper. In a small shaded corner of the monkey habitat, Cutis sat calmly, cradling a tiny newborn baby monkey in his arms. The baby was no bigger than a coconut, its eyes half-open, its hands weakly gripping Cutis’ fingers. Cutis was known for many things—his clever tricks, his playful attitude, and his brave heart—but today, he was showing a different side of himself: patience, care, and surprising wisdom.
Newborn baby monkeys are fragile, just like human babies. They cry easily, sleep often, and sometimes struggle with the simplest things—especially digestion. This little baby had been restless all night. It wriggled, whimpered softly, and curled its tiny body in discomfort. The mother monkey looked exhausted, gently rocking back and forth, unsure how to help. That was when Cutis stepped in.
Cutis had watched carefully over many days. He had observed how mothers gently stimulate their babies, how warmth, touch, and rhythm helped newborns feel safe. With calm confidence, he gently took the baby from the mother, who trusted him completely. Everyone around knew Cutis had a special gift with babies.
He began by warming his hands, rubbing them together softly. Then, in the most gentle and surprising way, he placed the baby on his lap, supporting its tiny back. With slow, rhythmic motions, Cutis lightly massaged the baby’s belly in small circles. His touch was careful, almost magical. The baby’s breathing slowly became calmer, its tense body relaxing bit by bit.
But Cutis didn’t stop there.
He adjusted his position, holding the baby upright against his chest. Using one finger, he gently tapped the baby’s lower back, just like a mother would. Tap… pause… tap… pause. The rhythm was steady and soothing. The baby let out a tiny squeak, then another. Suddenly, a small sound broke the silence—success. The baby had finally pooped.
The surrounding monkeys reacted instantly. Some leaned closer, curious. Others tilted their heads in amazement. The mother monkey’s face softened with relief. The baby, now comfortable, let out a contented sigh and relaxed completely in Cutis’ arms.
But the most surprising part was what Cutis did next.
He carefully cleaned the baby using leaves, choosing the softest ones nearby. His movements were precise and thoughtful, as if he understood exactly what the baby needed. He made sure the baby stayed warm, pulling it close to his body. Then he gently rocked the baby side to side, humming a soft monkey sound that only babies seemed to understand.
Within moments, the baby drifted into peaceful sleep.
The forest felt warmer somehow, filled with quiet admiration. Cutis handed the baby back to the mother, who pulled it close and groomed Cutis gently in gratitude. It was a moment of pure connection—no tricks, no jokes, just love and care.
Later that day, another newborn began to cry. This time, the other monkeys didn’t panic. They looked to Cutis. And once again, he stepped forward. Each baby was different, and Cutis knew it. For one baby, he used gentle leg movements, slowly bending and stretching tiny knees. For another, he used warmth—pressing the baby lightly against his belly and breathing deeply, creating a calming rhythm. Every action was thoughtful, patient, and full of understanding.
What amazed everyone was how natural Cutis seemed. He didn’t rush. He didn’t force anything. He listened—to the baby’s sounds, movements, and energy. His care wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was quiet, steady, and deeply effective.
As the sun climbed higher, the babies slept peacefully, their bellies relaxed and their tiny faces calm. Mothers rested nearby, finally able to relax themselves. Cutis sat under a tree, eyes half-closed, watching over them like a proud older brother.
The villagers and caretakers who observed from a distance were stunned. “That monkey understands babies better than many humans,” one whispered. And it was true. Cutis showed that care doesn’t always come from size or authority—it comes from empathy.
By evening, the story spread: how Cutis helped newborn baby monkeys poop easily in the most special and surprising way. But to Cutis, it wasn’t a story. It was simply what family does for family.
As the forest settled into night, Cutis curled up near the babies, keeping watch. The newborns slept soundly, their troubles forgotten. In the soft glow of the moon, Cutis’ eyes shone gently—not with mischief this time, but with quiet pride.
In that peaceful moment, everyone understood something important: intelligence is impressive, strength is admirable—but kindness, especially toward the smallest and weakest, is what truly makes someone special.
