The Pet Collector

I had a mate who did this once, he's doing 25 to life in Broadmoor now.

***

In the dead hours between two and four, there is a beautiful freedom in this city. I smell the vunerablity and only imagine the possibilities. I am the last man, the only man, a man without purpose and all the free will in the world. Tonight I feel I can truly fly. Gales sweep through the huge suburban oaks and chestnuts disguising the sound of my footsteps whilst the dilute orange streetlight seems to blur my face like a phantom. I have an intimacy with these streets, a working knowledge. They delight me and surprise me continually at night and yet I find them plain and unappealing in stark sunlight. The feline population sentry each corner as I furtively stalk my next target which sits a-top a family saloon car. A tortoise-shell, its whiskers blown back by the wind, faces skyward, enchanted by the clouds which seem to be in a hurry to get home tonight. I reach into my pocket and remove the bacon bits. Quietly I speak to her before I am too near. I neither wish to transmit my fear, I’m not keen on cats, or my intent. She has taken the bacon bit and I am close enough to touch her, still whispering all the time. I reach into my pocket again and I fumble for another bacon bit with my leather gloves. Eventually I retrieve one and manage to tempt her down onto the trunk of the saloon and stroke her back. It is then that I feel confident enough to pick her up and carry her to the large van I have parked on the next corner. She is mine and she is my last, I now have enough.

I have rented a large basement flat with a reasonable sized garden, which I have enclosed and soundproofed completely. The sound of two hundred cats can be quite deafening at times. Don’t get me wrong, I am not a cruel man and the animals I keep here are well cared for. Mysteriously, I have found that cats get on remarkably well together in large companies, although barely a day goes by where I don’t spot at least one moggy with a chunk taken out of it.

On Saturdays I have a part time job at the city zoo. It’s a rather charming but ultimately sad affair and its closure is imminent. The elephant who’s almost cult like status is almost certainly on the verge of insanity and often appears to be held up by virtue of its big flat feet. Almost every animal in captivity seems bored beyond breakfast and is happily looking forward to the needle. It’s all the staff can do to entertain them and often them there is talk of putting the leopard in with the lion just to see who would win. Personally I think it would end in a rather dull sleeping competition. My motivation for working there comes in the large bags of feed I secret away to feed my animals.

Dogs are harder to catch than cats as a rule, not due to their prowess or mental agility, but due to the sheer lack of numbers in the city. I will sacrifice a cat to catch a dog and have done several times. The trick more often than not is to release them from the bonds of their owners by deception and guile. Why we trust the selfish, maverick cat to wander alone through the small hours over the slavish befuddled dog only an owner knows. A dog will attach itself like a leech to it’s next meal or the next best time on the block it can find, but a cat is more discerning, wise and mercenary. Today I am following a middle-aged lady through the downs. She has a beautiful Afghan, stupid as fuck and consumed by the large stick it is dragging along for no other reason than it can. I spotted the lady last week as I stalked a jogger with a Dalmatian and noticed that as she approaches the large green area of the downs, enclosed by a small copse, she will let the dog of the leash and throw an old tennis ball down towards the trees for him to retrieve. Some minutes ago, in anticipation of her arrival, I laced the edge of the wood with a trail of aniseed leading to the back doors of my van, a trick that I have shamelessly stolen from the making of a TV commercial for dog food. As the daft mutt munches obliviously on some cheap sausages in the back of my van, I lower the back door, get in and casually drive back to my second apartment in the city. Here I will acquaint my new acquisition to the gang, eighty-three of his mates to be precise. They create a far greater cacophony than their counterparts in the other cellblock as you might expect, but I don’t intend keeping them here much longer. Besides the traffic and the local nightclub provide all the required soundproofing. Not surprisingly the dogs seem to have no wish to fight merely fuck and this seems to keep them happy whilst they aren’t watching TV.

The zoo is to close on Saturday after all. When all the kids have gone home, having dropped their ice creams and shed their last tear, the animals will be sedated, transported and re-housed in various zoos in various other cities. It’s a sad time for some but most realise this is for the best. In time, the zoo will be demolished and no doubt a property developer will build a new human zoo. I have accepted the role of cleaning up the mess after everyone, including the animals, have left. No one else could see the point. I have a week before the campaign begins.

There is now one hour before the re-opening. All the large animals have now left and the cages are clean. The advertisements are in the papers and on the Internet. Last night was spent frantically, stapling posters to trees all over the suburbs and I even managed to get myself a ginger tom. I couldn’t help myself.

CITY ZOO WELCOMES THE OWNERS OF ALL MISSING PETS.

COME AND VIEW HUNDREDS OF DOMESTIC ANIMALS.

WILL YOU FIND YOUR LOVED ONE?

OPENING 11 O’CLOCK SHARP

The transportation and caging of so many animals has taken since six this morning and I am exhausted. It is a beautiful sight to see an owner re-united with their pet and my efforts can only bring happiness and worth. In my wildest dreams, I could not of expected such a response. I am almost trampled as I pin back the large white wooden gates. I retire to the safety of the zoo’s office, which looks over the whole complex. A local TV reporter and his camera man are setting themselves up for a spot on the news tonight, whilst other local press photographers flash away at the hopeful crowd who are assembling themselves into a queue. The slow train of people file past each cage in turn, hoping to see little faces they recognise. Some stop, point then shout out, jump and down and hug each other. I swear there is a tear in my eye. The crowd at the front of the parade is almost reaching the last cages now and their disappointment is becoming palpable. They are nearing the gorilla pen I meticulously cleaned earlier in the week. It has a Perspex window as a front, almost half a foot thick and in its clean state resembles a laboratory. A gasp goes up, the main attraction is unveiled and word in passed quickly back down the line. Men on mobile phones bow their head and shout desperately into them. The TV crew is running across the lawn awkwardly so they can film the spectacle through the Perspex shield. I clasp my hands with delight. Everyone has come to see the dozens of little boys and girls huddled together for warmth in the corner, naked as God intended them to be, exhibited like the animals they so loved to come and see. That’ll teach ‘em.