DRIVING UP the gravel driveway leading to Peaceable Primate Sanctuary, it’s surprisingly quiet. Small buildings surrounded by chain-link outdoor enclosures dot the front of the property. Farther back, the buildings and yards get larger. A metal-framed building houses the small apartment where director Scott Kubisch stays with his rescue dogs. It’s decorated in all things monkey—figurines, paintings, stuffed animals, and framed photos of residents, past and present.
Approximately 110,00 primates are housed in U.S. pharmaceutical and cosmetic company research facilities. Most of the 101 under Kubisch’s care are baboons and macaques, the latter quickly becoming the most common species in labs. Recently, a third became part of the fold, albeit in small numbers: lemurs. Not all the residents are survivors of labs. A few were taken from roadside attractions or abusive owners. One such rescued monkey was kept in a tiny, filthy cage and fed a diet of ketchup sandwiches for years.
Of the six baboon species, two are represented in the sanctuary: the olive baboon, a gray-green variety known to bark and wa-hoo, and the hamadryas, which is recognizable for its wise expressions and silvery mane. Animals retrieved from the same situation who arrive already bonded are kept together. The rest are carefully observed to note their habits and preferences, then housed side-by-side with a prospective troop, an audition of sorts. Once it seems likely they’ll get along, they’re officially introduced. Lip smacking is a sure sign the newbie has been accepted.
Kubisch has loved animals for as long as he can remember. His dad wanted him to go into the trades because it was “respectable work.” But his grandmother urged him to pursue his passion, so that’s what he did, going to work at a children’s zoo right out of high school. Years later, after being a zookeeper at Brookfield and Lincoln Park zoos in Chicago, he started to dream of his own facility, one where laboratory primates who’d had dismal existences could enjoy the rest of their lives. Such communities for chimpanzees existed, but none of any size for baboons. So he cashed in a retirement account to purchase land in Winamac, near where his grandparents once lived. Though he was a lifelong Chicagoan, property was cheaper and red tape not as onerous in Indiana as in Illinois. An endowment from a docent he befriended as a zookeeper enabled him to welcome his first residents, baboons Violet, Juniper, and Periwinkle.
Baboons have personalities. Olivia is gregarious, rushing right over to the fence to greet visitors, picking greenery, then coquettishly twirling it under her nose. Amelia loves the rain, even thunderstorms, racing to the highest platform and tilting her face back to feel the drops. Dyson and his wingman Moses, 6-year-old best buds, get along with the ladies, but other males? Not so much. Kubisch emphasizes that while movies frequently make baboons look malevolent, males often put their lives on the line to protect their troop. And primates in general tend to be loyal to their caregivers, even playing favorites. Sissy, a petite macaque, seems to have a crush on Kubisch. She calls out, then looks at him and quickly looks away, classic primate—and human, for that
matter—flirting.
Seeing a newcomer enjoy an experience for the first time is always a thrill. Being groomed by another monkey after years of solitude or touching grass reliably elicit surprise, then joy. Playing with a Kong dog toy or tasting sugar-free Jell-O? Utter glee. And while Kubisch treasures such moments, he’s looking at the big picture now. “I get the most satisfaction out of seeing the big difference our sanctuary is making. We started a new movement. Now, sending animals to retirement, rather than to terminal studies or euthanasia, is becoming the norm.”
Kubisch books speaking engagements with the laboratory community, and it’s paying off. “We’re growing fast now,” he reports. A hospital with a surgical suite was just finished; a new indoor/outdoor enclosure building with in-floor heating is next. The retirees get excellent medical care, including birth control. One baboon and two macaques take anxiety medication. Some get natural remedies like milk thistle for liver health. Since most are middle-aged or older, many take CBD for aches and pains. One of eight caregivers gives medications in peanut butter or rice cakes. Macaque Wilma needed daily injections for diabetes. Sugar-free Red Vines, specially ordered from Indiana’s own American Licorice, secured her cooperation. She passed away peacefully at age 18.
It costs roughly $5,000 a year to care for each primate. Financial support comes from laboratories, grants, corporate sponsors, and individuals. Kubisch takes no stand on the ethics of animal testing, allowing him to accept funding from both labs and animal rights groups. He also relies on veterinarians and a veterinary dentist who donate their services, Purdue interns, and volunteers.
Food is prepared daily in a commercial kitchen. A menu favorite is an enriched dry pasta-and-cereal mix. Chickens and peacocks provide eggs. Corn on the cob is a coveted treat—it’s a party when a local farmer arrives with a donation. Kubisch recently acquired an adjacent property with fruit trees ready to harvest this year.
Visitors aren’t allowed unless they book a tour in advance or attend the biannual Festival de Monos fundraiser (named for the Monkey Buffet Festival in Thailand). Paid interactions like holding a macaque would doubtless be popular but violate Kubisch’s mission. The retirees have earned the right to do only what they choose to do. Two new species will arrive by year’s end: squirrel and spider monkeys. And Kubisch granted his father’s wish after all. “These animals have performed a valuable service to humanity and now deserve to live out the remainder of their lives with dignity.”
“Adopt” a resident for a day or donate an item from the sanctuary’s Amazon wish list at peaceableprimatesanctuary.com.
