Christmas Stray

As I skirt around yet another killer tram I do my best not to reflect on all the lives taken by those horrible machines. It irritates me the way I allow my feelings to get the better of me still. I am supposed to be wild and free, wreck-less and careless, just…less. If there is one thing I have learned in my short life it is that I am definitely ‘less’. Lesser than those in their cozy warm houses sheltered away from the rain and elements. Bush-league compared to those purebreds with their expensive jewelry and holistic caviar. I would be thankful for a warm oil drum fire and food that hasn’t been in the garbage first.

I retrace my steps to the collection of cardboard houses I have called home for the past few weeks. The assortment of makeshift dwellings in the alley behind the city-center play asylum to many of the local riffraff. Most are harmless and keep to themselves or in small packs of two or three. Many of us jokingly referred to our location as Stray-center. Eventually we will move yet again after being run off or attacked by The Catchers. Forced to go our separate ways we attempt to meet up later at new Stray-centers around town. Bigger numbers mean better protection, but it doesn’t always work out that way.

Fortunately the holiday season means we have a longer break between moves. The Fortunate tend to focus even more on themselves and others like them this time of the year. At times when their paths inadvertently cross ours they are kinder and less hostile, only aiming kicks at us instead of actually trying to connect. I’ve heard tales of some Fortunates purposefully handing out their leftovers, many of which look as if they have never been touched. Earlier this week I was lucky enough to share in a leftover ham bone feast. Just the thought of it turns me into Pavlov’s dog; I easily remember the smell and feel my glands begin to salivate.

I shake my head, a movement that sends an involuntary shudder down the length of my body. I try to dislodge the recent memory that only reminds me of how hungry I am once again. Not only that, but the ham bone smell called up older recollections from my puppy years. Ones I would do well to forget.

Two blocks from the city-center I find myself in a familiar place, a popular strip mall that boasts a motley assemblage of stores. This time of the year stores are always jam packed with Fortunates running to and fro. It can be easy for a Stray to dart in and out of the crowds unnoticed, maybe even pilfer a small meal or two if you’re lucky (most aren’t). I tell myself, the possibility of a meal, however meager, is the only reason I find myself taking this path so often. I could easily take the side street bypass, it would be quicker, but I almost always come this way and whenever I do I have to pass by the Store.

I couldn’t help it, I just had to see. Call it morbid curiosity, canine masochism or whatever; it never fails to draw me in. I was born there after all, sold there, went away to a new life from there. What I thought was to be a happy life, a Fortunate life.

The hunger cramps in my stomach radiate out to my sides, I know it won’t be long before the shakes hit me. I take a rest under one of the tree islands dispersed throughout the mall parking lot. This is my favorite tree. The vantage point is directly across from the Store; not too close to be obvious and not so far that I can’t make out the shoppers and their Purchases.

After rousing myself from what seems like the fiftieth nod off I prepare myself to complete the two block trek home. Hopefully one of my friends will be in a sharing mood as I don’t have the strength to fight for a meal today. I slowly distribute my weight on my four quivering limbs, taking a moment to stabilize. Then, out the corner of my tired eyes, I notice the Purchase leaving the Store. He’s sporting a brand new baby blue collar that matches his attached temporary leash. He doesn’t need the accessories at the moment though as he is currently secure in the arms of a well to do Fortunate. Panting tongue, wagging tail, the devotion in his eyes is unmistakable. I imagine in a few days his story will be much like mine.

He will be put in a big box with holes, an itchy bow tied around his neck, and placed under a smelly tree filled with lights. A few hours later he will hear the sound of tiny Fortunates running toward his box. Ripping off the lid of his stuffy box they will scream and giggle at him. They will pick him up, hug him, love him and play with him. He will follow them everywhere and do his best to make them happy.

Maybe it will go on like that, maybe that is where our stories diverge and he will live a long Fortunate life. Or maybe he will end up like me. After two or three moons he will notice that the hugs are less, the smiles aimed his way are less and overall the love is less. Then he will be less and he will be sent away like I was. Heart broken, he will be forced to find the nearest Stray-center where he can hope to find enough food to keep him alive and decent shelter to protect him from the Catchers or those bigger and stronger.

As I slowly make my way “home” I pray to never see that Purchase again. Should I one day recognize him on the streets I will do my best to help him any way I can. After all, we Christmas Strays have to stick together.

So fortunate to be a 2.5 time Winner of the "The Writer's Cramp - Poetry Week!" 

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Especially since I did not expect to win, or at least expected to tie, with some of these other awesome works!:

The Christmas Temp  (E) The Spirit Temp Agency sends the Ghost of Christmas Past to the wrong era. #1906102 by D. Thorsson

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