Archive for October, 2008

Trick or Treat!

” furkid noun a domestic animal that is treated as if it is its owner’s child – There is a movement among some animal lovers to proscribe the use of ‘pet’ as it is demeaning to the animal. Preferred terms include ‘companion animal’ and ‘furkid’, the latter conferring on the animal a status equivalent to that of the owner’s child. Some pets might consider this a demotion in status.

(Foyle’s Further Philavery – A Cornucopia of Lexical Delights collected by Christopher Foyle)

The ozone burst as snow smothered the falling rust flakes and firework shards cut through the world war smog, decapitating the Night. Terribly menacing yobjobs scoffed at egging and battering as worthy tricks in exchange for any lack of treat. Of course not – keys, cars, banging, doors, money, teenagers – as opposed to knocking for sweets at eight in cute troops of white sheets and Dracula teeth and ooOOooing being the only trick they could really muster in response to a bowl of tangerines at the door.

One pack, a yobjob short, sat bent over a wall rising up through the concoction of mist. Puffs of white carried through the pinned air their rolling mumbles and chuckles. A grey hooded head tipped back as its arms tugged at a leash and a colossal, snarling dribble face silhouetted against the mellow daunt…

Toobaa had never been allowed to go out and ‘beg’ for food and money, not even with a grown up. In another place, at a lighter hour:

“It keeps them happy doesn’t it?” Pretty scarecrow lady winked at Toobaa as they shuffled onto the 275, the three – no – four of them now stitched with the invisible thread available to strangers who venture into conversations at a bus stop.

Had she been Nily of the Land, Toobaa would have eagerly pasted the poor would-be-hooligan boy with the cross breed puppy with questions of its diet, lifestyle, place of birth and why’s. Instead, she simply smiled when his half-chain-leather lead pulled taut at her ankles as he knitted himself through bus-waiter’s legs trying to make for squashed chips on the dirt smeared ground.

“It won’t grow into one of those enormous… things, will it?” Brown boy’s innocence and patience, as unexpected as it was owing to the street garb, was becoming more apparent. Scarecrow lady’s questions and friendly verbal prods coaxed the little black (slightly dirty) creature back into brown boy’s arms and nuzzling forcefully at his pocket for treats.

Brown boy opened up slowly, shy at first by his display of affection and care for this thing not limb to him being so obvious. “Erm… My sister… paid £150 of the money… but I… paid most of it. …He’s a special cross breed… The only one.” His tone had a childish upturn at the break of every sentence and his nods went on to confirm to scarecrow lady that his entire routine must have now changed and must revolve around responsibly caring for his new friend.

Toobaa admired the undying sense of occasion as she greeted her canaries with peace and childish merriment at every coming and going. They twittered and chirruped loudly whenever she was around; they knew when treats and food were ahoy and hopped about at their treat dish; they created a rainforest of sweet song out of every call to prayer and always competed with the vacuum cleaner, talking guests and the X Factor. Snicket constantly serenaded Snoopy by sliding down his cage bars and unsuccessfully tweeting sweet nothings until he reached the bottom.

They were tiny, yellow, weightless bubbles of treasure. Like the vision of The Golden Compass, young people ought to be encouraged to have pets from as early as possible and treat them, somewhat, like their souls, save those who exhibit / transfer abusive behaviour patterns, in which case, they ought to have therapies first. Toobaa shook her head gravely at the Nintendo DS pet-a-dog/cat/other animal games dancing through the TV screen and, instead, basked in the compassion that her (and brown boy’s) furkids’ self professed and happy dependence cultivated.


Passive Participle: Thunk

For you – me – an impression of dehuman.

Freedom, please! Admit me.

Thunk me into a made-up plain.

Unimagine me! I may feel, then.

I may feel my way away, away.

some post-modern satire

some post-modern satire