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Godey likes his new master.
He has silky, black fur, like mother did. Smooth, gentle hands, too. Kind. Scratches behind the ears and under the chin. His nails feel so good against the skull. He talks nice and gentle-like into the ears. Kisses upon the back and between the eyes.
Doesn’t draw his finger back when I clean it in thanks. Not like the idiot-fool. The blonde one, the big, ugly one who handled me first. Scared of old Godey, he was. Not as smart as Godey, either.
No. The new cage is nice and big, unlike the inadequate wire contraption the other pale man used to carry Godey around. Bed is soft. The floor is like feather down against my paws.
The master brings little treats to chew, little spoils of affection, like crisp, pulpy apple slices. He lets me fish out pearly little green peas in pleasant, splish-splashy water. Even lets me nibble on the cereal rounds that escape the box, what falls at his feet.
The master is good.
Benevolent master. Good master. Loving master.
~✧~
The master brings me frozen mealworms. Still feel their exoskeletons crunching twixt my teeth.
Chew, chew. Almost wish they would wriggle.
Godey learns to dance with the tip of the master’s ivory finger. A practiced waltz. An elegant twirl on little clawed hind feet.
The master is pleased. Rewards Godey with a nice, big, juicy thing to gnaw on and bite.
Godey studies the silver-haired one from across the bars. The master's other pet.
Remembers, affronted, how his hand trembled when the master presented me to him.
Not very nice. Not very friendly. Uglier and littler and bonier than even Godey!
Bite him. Gnaw on his skeletal milk-white fingers. Savor the taste—and the wriggling.
Like biting into plum flesh.
Leaves a lovely little bruise.
~✧~
He does not know his place. He lacks discipline. Lacks obedience. An ugly, unlovable creature he must be, for the master to flick and squeeze and grab at him the way he does.
Godey is handled gently. Godey is trusted. Godey is loved.
The master never yells at Godey.
But he yells at the little one.
And the little one sings.
He sings so sweetly.
~✧~
Godey’s life is easy. Wake up. Eat. Chew. Gnaw. Bite. Eat. Sleep.
Monotonous.
Grateful, still, Godey is, yes.
The master’s hand remains ever generous. Ever gracious.
The ataractic nights belong only to Godey. The air is thick. There is a ritual. Wash the waxy little pelt with clean hands. Listen to the boy sing. Feel the dewdrops of dripping water from the ceiling trickle from the tips of Godey’s whiskers.
But sometimes, when Godey is lucky, the master wakes from sleep to join in, to take part in Godey’s little playground. I crawl upon his holy hand, cupped in its icy, ethereal palm. Weave my scaly tail between his dainty fingers.
Godey bonds with the master. With father. With God.
But even the Gods pull away from their believers to handle more important affairs.
Godey is no more different. No more special.
Indifference is a sad and violent truth of life that even rats understand.
The boy languishes.
He pushes the master’s hand away.
Pushes away the hand of God.
Blasphemy! No mealworms for the boy! Not even a crumb.
~✧~
The ungrateful little brat cowers at the sound of the master’s voice. Picks at the master’s meals. Sneaks around when the master is asleep, touches the master’s things, hides from the master in open, exposed, vulnerable corners.
Nowhere to hide.
But he remains sharp. Sharp enough to cut himself.
He is a cunning one, that boy. He never gets caught.
In the stillness of shadow as the silver one skitters around the little shoebox cage, we gaze upon one another.
Two lonely rats in a room together.
~✧~
Godey likes the night air. Godey decides he likes the little one’s hands. Still soft and zesty and bite-able.
Cold, like the master’s. Yet different, somehow.
The water that falls from the silver one’s face is salty and sweet. Godey curls up to his chin and licks the unexpected treat.
The three of us are meant to be a family. We are brethren.
The little one and I both rely on the master to survive.
We must love one another. We must love the master.
Even when he yells.
Even when he breaks the cardboard walls with his fists.
Even when his poison paint coats the lining of our lungs.
It burns. We wheeze. We die.
But the master loves us, does he not?
Feeds us. Holds us. Kisses us.
This is love.
Godey understands this.
Why does the little one not?
~✧~
The boy does not only sing—he squeaks.
Like a cry for his mischief.
A cry for home.
Silly boy. You are home.
It is a strange vocalization. A constant, painful sound.
A wordless language that old Godey wishes he did not comprehend.
A melancholy he feels in his bones.
Godey realizes.
The master only takes care of Godey.
The master only likes me.
My cage mate doesn’t seem to be as lucky.