You have a pet monkey.
He’s sorta cute, in a weird, monkey way. He wears a hat, dances, hops from foot to foot, repeats a couple of sounds that humans make.
You bought him at a store in some nowhere town, brought him home, gave him a name, fed him banana chips and a little skim milk. He’s a happy monkey who behaves well and dazzles all of your children’s friends from school. He’s also smart for a monkey. Not smart. But monkey smart. Which is smarter than rock smart, but dumber than dolphin smart.
He learns to poop and pee in regular places. At night, when you sleep, he also sleeps. He loves when you rub him beneath the chin; when you tell him what a good monkey he is. You can make little kissie sounds and he puckers his lips.
He’s your monkey, and you love him very much.
But never, in your wildest dreams, would you elect him president.