“No,” he admitted, “A monkey living in that mango tree picks the best ones from the branches and throws them to me.”

“And why would he do that for you?” she asked suspiciously.

“Because he is my friend,” he replied, “A very generous and good animal.”

“That animal must be very good,” His wife agreed warmly, “good to eat!” She was in no mood, really, to consider a stranger’s virtues.

Then she fell silent, busy working out some reptilian logic in her reptilian mind: “If the mangos from that tree are the sweetest in this world—and they certainly taste so—and the monkey has been feeding on those mangos year after year, certainly by now his heart must be sweeter than the sweetest mango ever tasted. I must try it.”

“Listen,” she said in an urgent, hushed tone to her husband, “I want to prepare a most sumptuous meal this evening. So hurry and bring to me… the heart of that monkey!”

“His… his… his … heart?” the crocodile stammered, “How can I bring you his heart?”

“However you arrange it,” she hissed. “We shall have the heart of that monkey tonight for dinner. Succulent monkey heart …m-m-m.” And she began to hum a hungry song.

The crocodile heard a similar hungry song being sung in his own belly. He thought about how sweet the mangos that very afternoon had been; the lingering taste on his tongue made the hungry song grow even louder. “Yes,” he thought to himself, “monkey heart would be quite a treat tonight. Sauteed in clarified butter, with a touch of turmeric, perhaps, or even cardamon. The flavor would surpass that of freshly picked mangos, even.” He sighed and went looking for the monkey.

The crocodile swam to the foot of the mango tree and called, “Oh, my friend!”

“My friend who?” the monkey called back playfully.

“My friend the monkey,” the crocodile replied.