- Vol. 03
- Chapter 11
Image by Bruce Connew
The Metal BarWhat are you doing? You’ve got the red rope-thing in your hands, the red rope-thing you strange lopsided creatures like pulling over my head and buckling there. You feed me more after and take it off quickly, so I don’t mind, much. But there’s a metal bar attached this time. You reach for me and lift the rope-thing, complete with metal bar, to my face.
No. Get away from me, you idiot. No. I said no. I’m being pretty clear here, but fine, I’ll be blatant. If the rolling eyes and the twitching ears and the annoyed snorting aren’t doing it for you, a kick should make you understand.
You look so startled. And you’ve fallen back into the pile of hay, clutching your ankle, honest-to-goodness tears in your eyes. That hay is good—don’t crush it.
You pull yourself up with one hand on the metal railing which lines my large wooden cage. You can’t stand on the ankle I kicked, so you’re leaning your weight on your other leg. I don’t feel guilty.
I don’t, because I’ve escaped the metal bar. I know what the metal bar means. I’ve seen the others led out of their own cages, wearing rope-things, their teeth clenched around metal bars. The metal bar means heavy leather blankets, an assortment of clanking decorations, and some of you on my back, thinking you know where I should go better than I do. It means imprisonment and humiliation, and I’m never letting you hurt me, no matter how much you cry.