My pet is a small mammal of some kind, skittish, flighty, furry with a weak back. Pink, wary eyes. Whitish fur, downy and milky. Almost like an overgrown mouse, a cat-size mouse, but with a sorrowful big-eyed appearance, weak and insipid.
A cat's tail, elegantly arching over the back, but altogether not quite a cat. It is too trepidacious, milky-white and pink-eyed, with the skittishness of a rodent. The blank, trusting eyes of a dog, none of the self-assurance of a cat. But a tiny little thing, weak-backed, mewling in the grass as helpless as a kitten. Could easily be trampled underfoot unnoticed. In the front garden, on the open grass, i let it play. It scampers and gambols on to the neighbour's lawn as well, blisfully appreciating no human boundaries.
Very quickly, however, it died. I felt cheated. Like when you win a goldfish from the fair and it dies three days later. Apparently, these things have a short life expectancy. The heart gave out.
At the edge of the lawn almost hidden among the grass i found it, on its back. Like a baby mouse wretchedly stillborn, frozen in a grotesque attitude. The folds of its pink and hairless skin, the body contracted. White, translucent claw frozen in a spasm. Hollow, like the end of a quill.
