In a peaceful village nestled between lush green hills and a gently flowing river, animals often roamed freely, and many of them formed curious friendships. Among them was a dog named Max, a loyal and clever golden retriever who lived with an old man named Grandpa Thom. Max was no ordinary dog—he had a warm heart, a protective spirit, and a strange fondness for collecting rocks.
Grandpa Thom had been a stone mason in his younger days and had passed on a love for stones to Max. Every time they went for a walk, Max would sniff out a stone he liked and carry it back in his mouth. He had a whole pile of them behind the barn—smooth ones, rough ones, round ones, flat ones—each chosen with great care.
One day, while exploring the rocky hills behind the village, Max came across something strange. At first glance, it looked like just another boulder, but then it moved. Max froze. The “rock” turned its head slowly—and blinked. It was a monkey, but not like any monkey Max had ever seen.
Its fur was ash-gray and blended perfectly with the surrounding rocks. It had deep, wise eyes, and a calm, still posture like a statue. The villagers would later call it the Rock Monkey, a creature of legend said to appear once every hundred years.
Max tilted his head and gave a soft bark. The monkey didn’t move. Cautiously, Max approached and sniffed. The monkey gave a soft grunt, neither frightened nor aggressive. From that moment, an odd bond formed between them.
The monkey followed Max back to the village, hopping from rock to rock like it had lived in the stones its entire life. When Grandpa Thom saw the monkey perched on Max’s rock pile, he laughed. “So now you’ve got a statue that moves?” he said, patting Max on the head. “Looks like you’ve got a pet of your own!”
Word spread fast through the village: Max had brought home a rock monkey. Kids came to see it. The monkey, still as a boulder, barely moved when people were around, but when alone with Max, it played, ate fruit, and even mimicked his movements. They became inseparable.
People started calling Max “The Owner of the Rock Monkey.”
Max would lead the monkey around the village like a proud guardian. The monkey never strayed far from Max. If Max barked, the monkey would respond with a low grunt or a playful roll. They even slept together in the old barn—Max curled up in a hay nest and the monkey perched above him on a smooth rock ledge.
But not everyone in the village was pleased.
Old Mr. Niles, a stern man who didn’t like strange things, warned the villagers. “That monkey isn’t natural,” he said. “It’s a cursed creature. Mark my words, nothing good will come of it!”
