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ibsdfklma;kfbcmnvx,ztry was mesmerized by the story of Sandra Herold, a 70-year-old widow in Stamford, Conn., whose 14-year-old, 200-pound chimpanzee, Travis, horribly mauled a close friend of the owner, tearing off her face. Ms. Herold, whose daughter had died in a car accident, had developed a relationship with him that went far beyond the ordinary owner-pet dynamic. She referred to Travis as her son, spoke of sleeping and bathing with him when he was small, and, in an interview with Jeff Rossen on the “Today” show, showed off his drawings, which, like a parent, she kept on the refrigerator door.

There are not many privately owned chimpanzees in the country — a census conducted for the Great Ape Project, an advocacy group, puts the number at about 225 — but there are many thousands of pet primates. Regardless of primates’ species or size, the people who keep them as pets seem to have a remarkably consistent way of looking at them. Even Bob, who condemns what he sees as Ms. Herold’s irresponsible sentimentality for permitting an adult chimpanzee to roam free so often (“she was delusional,” he says, “she anthropomorphized the primate to such a degree that he was more human than chimpanzee”), can’t help but acknowledge the unusually strong connection.

“He’s very beguiling,” Bob says. “He puts his hand out, looks at you with those beautiful brown eyes, and you feel compelled to hold hands.”

“I’d love to say he loves me,” Bob says scrupulously. “But he can’t.”

“He eats grapes with me,” he went on. “I can pick from his