Pet Collector

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 last week 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.