By: JD DeHart
I first found myself in the wood, nestled in dew and fog, where no one would pry and find me slumping. Life was rather perfect then. I occasionally had to use my horns to shoo some intruder away. But that was part of the deal, as far as I was concerned. I would find the hilltop, observe and scan what was my world. It was glorious, I must tell you.
Then the poachers found me, and covered me with nets. They covered me with their assumptions about the wild, about what it is to be wild. They tossed me into the back of a truck, heavily sedated. I had dark dreams of hands gripping me, the painful tagging process, then woke to find myself chained to a desk.
“May I help you?” I heard myself say. The person in front of me completed a transaction. “May I help you?” I asked again, mechanically. As if brain-washed. I looked down at my fur, but it was not there. A shiny suit had replaced it. I glanced left and right for an exit, but knew I would not get my day’s pay if I went home early. Plus the traffic. The god-awful traffic.
I have grown accustomed to this life of worriless worry. There is not usually anything on television, but that is okay. I think that is how it is supposed to be. I pay my bills, shuffle, still preen. With the shades drawn, I still sharpen my horns on objects around the house.
One day I might escape. Or I might just migrate to Florida and drink Hurricanes until I complete the big checkout.