Pet City
The space is sufficient, large enough to maintain me. The room is cold and dense. Monotone. Six boundaries retain my being, each one surrounding and suffocating my consciousness. A unique sensation emits from one direction. It makes my eyes uneasy. Although, when I feel its energy, the dark figure always arrives to accompany me, always. That burning loneliness flees my body when it is here, and its actions are alike to mine, so I call him my friend. The other wall looks like nothing, but it’s different because I cannot pass through it. Just for a moment, I wonder if the color green is soothing. Only three entities inhabit the world—the box, myself, and the figure. This box is my captor; its extent entails all that I accept as truth, all of my subordinate knowledge. I accept that it nourishes me and provides everything necessary for survival. But it doesn’t tell me why I exist, no enlightenment of my mortal purpose. I am certain of my existence purely because I choose not to return to the cold feeling I had when I considered that I could be false. A burning sensation makes me yearn for something beyond, although its form evades me. It must exist in some practice beyond this transparent barrier. All that lies within my perspective is a couple of objects: a stick perpendicular to the ground, some shapes that stands upright. The Transients use them for some foreign purpose.
“Light, to what purpose am I servant?”
Spontaneously, I howl.
No! The thoughts distract me from my work—preserving what I remember. I saved it yestertime, and the time before, and the time before that time. It’s the only memory I call mine, my most precious memory. Fragments of it were lost in my youthful foolishness; I cannot afford to lose any more. Remember warmth, embrace; then sudden a sudden and empty chill, a fright effacing the former bliss like leaving a dream. Like last time, I realize that I never felt that welcoming warmth again. A malicious force took me and trapped me in the cell that imprisons me in the present. The memory wanes. I was too busy reminiscing to realize that a Transient stands beyond the room. Its features are less developed than the others. But it doesn’t attack, it doesn’t flee. It just spectates my existence.
I can recall that in my childhood my grandmother took my sister and me to a certain pet shop. I remember the store’s facade in detail because I would pass it near daily on my route to school. My elementary school was thirty minutes away from my house, so I would usually pass the time staring out the window at the passing storefronts. In retrospect this store resonated with me, however, because its eminence was particularly erie. A broad, yellow bannister reading “PET CITY” in bright lettering protruded over a simply-constructed storefront. The bright facade not only fascinated me, but the name was also so enthralling to my developing knowledge. I always begged my parents to take me there, but we were always busy under the circumstances of the commute.
I was so excited to finally know what Pet City entailed on the day that my grandmother brought me. The land of wonders was in actuality a large stock room with pet accessories on flimsy combustible racks. For the most part, my expectations were soiled, but another section of the store remained: an image that has inhabited my mind since it first absorbed my eyes. Behold—a six-foot wall of individual “units,” each containing one small dog and a bowl of food. Each cell was just sufficient enough to contain one small breed, with a yellow background and a window shielding the inhabitant from the rest of the world. The entire wall was backlit with white light. At the time, I reveled this sight, having so many lovable pets all within my grasp. Of course, my grandmother couldn’t buy me one, but in the moment I was wholly entertained. I had spent time previously with my great aunt and her Dachshund, so I had little experience empathizing with a dog. I could understand and imagine the life of a canine, being submissive yet compassionate to an impartial provider. I don’t remember the owners of the store, or anything else within it. I left the store with nothing, yet I felt entirely fulfilled.
I never returned to Pet City. The only other detail I remember is a gathering of people protesting the business outside its windows. Citizens with picket signs publically castigated the facility and its inhumane treatment of the animals, their products. One sign depicted a dog with blood around its lustrous black eyes, clearly suffering. I was shocked to see such criticisms against the store that had given me so much joy. Pet City was eventually replaced by an Optometrist office, and its influence disappeared entirely.
In retrospect, that I would regard such an anomaly with such praise puzzles me. It’s a strange feeling of pity for my childish innocence. After returning to me about a year ago, the memory evades my attempts to deny it since it was such a cornerstone in my imagination. The image that fascinated me crossed so many ethical boundaries that were just too mature for me to comprehend. Although the simplicity of living in a quaint little room once fascinated me, all I can imagine are the vast, emerald fields that those dogs will never traverse.
Comments