The Kennel

Lion’s first memories were of four constricting walls, and the weak mewling of his six siblings. Their prison seemed at once fragile and yet, to a litter of newborns, impossible to scale. If not for the cardboard, then the pair of giants that stood watch, their large, mishappen heads blotting out the very idea of climbing out from the prisoners’ minds.

Ostensibly, these giants were Lion’s parents, and he one of their many fur children. But the world the giants lived in must be a cruel one, where a parent cannot slow to suffer for all their children.

The six siblings were pulled one by one from the box until Lion remained alone. The lid descended, and with it, darkness. If he could understand their speech, he might’ve heard words such as small, runt, pitiful. But even without understanding the words, the message was clear.

When the lid opened, a different giant had taken their place. This one wore gloves, cold to the touch as they roughly brushed through Lion’s fur and grabbed him by the scruff. He was flung up and into the bright fluorescent light, then manhandled over to a countertop. The gloved hand kept him pressed down while something jabbed him in the side.

Once done, the hand threw Lion into a cell. One of many stacked atop each other, with holes in the sides so the prisoners could see out. His closest cellmates were a dog to his right, and a mangy cat six years his senior to the left. Aside from sparing him a quick side glance, neither seemed eager to get to know their new neighbor.

He settled in between them, resting his chin atop his paws. The waiting began.

*

Mean. Dangerous. Cantankerous… Lion particularly favored that last descriptor. The giant’s language had so many words to describe him, yet he hadn’t found one that pleased him so much as that. It was the sort of term suited for someone that refused to behave, one that picked fights, and ignored commands.

It didn’t fit him, not really. It didn’t resonate in a personal way. But if nothing else, it was original. He had heard only one person—his fourth adopter—use it, so it was memorable. Fun, even. Lion enjoyed mulling it over while he’d waited in his carrier to be ferried back to prison.

Learning what the giants said hadn’t helped one bit in securing shelter in one of their homes. Knowing what they called him in the days leading up to his departure didn’t explain the reasoning behind it.

First, he’d been too small. Then, too big. Too smart for his own good. Too cantankerous. Too meek for the other animals. It sounded like he had a lot more than two of these things, if the giants could be believed. Lion doubted they could, but nobody rushed to offer an alternative answer.

The only sure thing in life, the only thing he could count on as fact, was the box. That was his answer. Different forms, different cellmates, yet united by the distinct spirit they all shared. When he was younger, he called that spirit imprisonment. Now, Lion knew it as freedom. This was the one place the giants weren’t. They might open the gates, reach in, pull him out, but they couldn’t stay inside.

His freedom settled atop a dozen or so of its kind. The giant that brought him here this time spared a look his way before shaking their bulbous head.

“Back again, Lion?” The question came with a rattling cough. Lion looked away from the giant to the mangy occupant in the cell beside him.

The prison hadn’t changed much over the years, and neither had this fellow. Others made a habit of staying out once they were let go, but cats like Lion and Mr. Whisper couldn’t keep away. For Lion, that was a problem he’d tried and failed to fix time and time again. But Whisper almost seemed to like this place. Something about the whitewashed walls, the grim-faced giant that fed them, and the rattling cages that buzzed with activity called home to him.

“What is it this time?” Whisper asked, arching a feline brow. “Pick a fight? Scratch a kid?”

“Too quiet,” Lion said.

“Too quiet? The heck sorta complaint is that? You not eat enough food and cost enough upkeep?”

Lion shrugged. “I think they wanted a dog.”

“Then they should bloody adopt one.”

“I think they are.” He gestured with his head to the mishappen giant that brought him back in, now standing near the end of their cell row. They stood beside that familiar other—the grim-faced animal technician had changed little over the years, except looking a scratch more tired. A dog cowered between them, unsure, yet gradually warming up to the butt pats.

“Should’ve done it to start with,” Whisper continued, “and leave us lifers be.”

Lifers, Lion thought with a silent scoff. That’s what it came down to, at the end of the day, for people like them. The ones that couldn’t fit in, couldn’t adapt to a family. Though in Whisper’s case, that appeared to be an intentional choice. He, in the kindest words Lion could summon, was a stray.

“I wonder.”

“Yeah? About what?”

“If we really need them. Why can’t we just…” Lion gestured with his paw. “Leave?”

“Well, that’s on account of us being locked in.” Whisper slapped the cage door to prove his point. It shook a bit, but not enough to draw attention away from the dog. “Like it or not, we’re beholden to them. What they want from us, where they want to take us, what they see us as. It sucks, no doubt about it, but isn’t that our lot?”

That’s our lot. The statement rattled around, striking off the other ideas in Lion’s head. Even long after the place quieted down and he had settled in for sleep, it continued to keep him awake. Nothing but the white walls, the loud snoring of a dozen inmates, and Whisper’s voice repeating those words until they started to lose meaning.

“Is it, though?” Lion asked aloud. Had he really exhausted every other option? Or had he just allowed himself to be tossed about, guided on roads he didn’t choose, an occupant in a vehicle he couldn’t control. Perhaps being a little cantankerous is exactly what he needed. He dared to think this wasn’t freedom. At best it was comfortable and nothing more.

It might’ve been a slow revelation, but really the poor fellow was doing his best. And better late than never—he’d heard many giants repeat that saying.

That settled it. Motivation, check. Plan still pending.

“Hey. Hey!” He nudged the bars with his head until the rattling woke Mr. Whisper.

“Shush child. Can’t you see I’m napping?”

“Listen… I think we should get out of here.”

The old cat peeked an eye open. “You gone stir-crazy already? You just got back in. ‘Sides, the place is closed for the night. Nobody’s coming to adopt you anytime soon.”

“No, not adoption. Let’s get out of here on our own. We can be our own people, live our lives without the giants watching over us.” The idea had dug its roots into Lion, and the more he talked about it, the deeper they grew.

“So. You want to be a stray?” Whisper asked. Suddenly, the cages felt awfully quiet.

He dared to break the silence after a long pause. “I think so.”

“And you think I can bust us out of here? That why you’re asking me?”

“I’ve heard stories, you know. That you’ve escaped before,” Lion ventured shyly.

“Oh, I have alright. But listen kid, are you sure your ready?” Whisper fixed him with a wide-eyed stare. “You really sure you’re ready?”

Lion didn’t know what to say. So, after a time, he said yes. Whisper must’ve thought him a silly housecat, burnt out after being kicked from home after home, but still not ready to rough it on his own.

To be entirely honest, Lion was starting to feel that he didn’t care so much what Whisper thought of him. Or what the giants thought of him, for that matter. It felt right for him to do this, so wasn’t that enough?

Lion didn’t know what to think. So, he decided to think it was enough.