curious to see what this clothing business portended.
I put on the whole outfit, then followed him out of the bayou. On the edge of the woods was a parking lot for weekend fishermen. He walked over to the only car in the lot, opened the passenger door and turned to say something to me. The tail end of his words floated into the night as I plunged back into the forest.
The next day, he brought fresh clothes. He also brought extra food, so once again, I forgave him. To show that I didn't bear a grudge, I even played the clothing game again. This time, once I was dressed, he led me not to the parking lot, but on a longer walk, right to the outskirts of the city.
Backing onto the bayou was a run-down motel. He walked to the door closest to the woods and opened it. I tensed, ready to bolt. Instead of calling to me, though, he just walked inside, leaving the door open.
I hovered on the forest's edge for at least thirty minutes. When he didn't reappear, I crept forward. A car roared into the parking lot. I dove for cover behind a bush. Two people stumbled from the car, voices too loud, laughter too harsh. Drunk. I knew what that sounded like.
I watched them go into a room farther down, then slunk out from the bush and started toward the open door again. When I got close, I circled wide, keeping my distance.
A blast of hot air billowed from the room. I paused, letting it chase some of the night chill from my bones. Then I scooted around to the far side and peered through the open doorway. The man was inside, lying on a bed, ankles crossed, reading a newspaper. He glanced around the edge at me, nodded and kept reading.
I inched toward the door, testing how close I'd need to get to feel that glorious warmth again. I was just close enough to feel the tugging tendrils of heat when the newspaper crackled. My nerve snapped and I bolted for the safety of the woods.
I didn't go back to my den though. It was getting late and morning would be coming. Morning meant breakfast. I dimly remembered breakfast. Maybe if I stuck around, I'd get more than the two meals a day he'd been providing so far. So I crawled under a bush and fell asleep.
Late that night, I woke up shivering. Louisiana was suffering through a cold snap that winter and even the clothing the man had provided didn't help much. I remembered that burst of heat from the motel room.
For a long time, I lay there, shivering, fear warring with discomfort. Finally, I leapt up and dashed for the motel. The door was still open. Inside, the man was asleep on the bed. I curled up in the doorway and went to sleep.
And so I let myself be domesticated. In the end, like any stray, I was conquered by the promise of continued food and shelter. Trust would take longer.
For at least a week I slept in the doorway, not letting him close the door no matter how cold the night got. One day, another man came by. While I hid in the bushes outside, the other man yelled at my man, motioning at the door. Money changed hands and the other man left. That was the first of many such exchanges I'd see in my life—cash buying tolerance for my idiosyncrasies.
After a few days, with the right amount of food for coaxing, the man convinced me to come inside the room. He left the door open, so this seemed safe.
By the bed was a huge mirror with a web of tiny cracks down one side. I glanced into it by accident and startled myself so badly I dove under the bed, provoking a spate of laughter from the man.
Pretending that I'd simply fallen under the bed, I pulled myself back up and looked into the mirror. Staring back at me was a puny runt of a kid. Disgust filled me. If I'd seen myself somewhere else, my first reaction would have been “easy pickings.” Definitely not the dangerous predator I liked to imagine myself.
I was skinny and filthy, from my ragged mop of yellow curls to my bare feet with gnarled toenails. Scabs and bruises covered my face and bare arms. The clothing—my third set so far—was
I put on the whole outfit, then followed him out of the bayou. On the edge of the woods was a parking lot for weekend fishermen. He walked over to the only car in the lot, opened the passenger door and turned to say something to me. The tail end of his words floated into the night as I plunged back into the forest.
The next day, he brought fresh clothes. He also brought extra food, so once again, I forgave him. To show that I didn't bear a grudge, I even played the clothing game again. This time, once I was dressed, he led me not to the parking lot, but on a longer walk, right to the outskirts of the city.
Backing onto the bayou was a run-down motel. He walked to the door closest to the woods and opened it. I tensed, ready to bolt. Instead of calling to me, though, he just walked inside, leaving the door open.
I hovered on the forest's edge for at least thirty minutes. When he didn't reappear, I crept forward. A car roared into the parking lot. I dove for cover behind a bush. Two people stumbled from the car, voices too loud, laughter too harsh. Drunk. I knew what that sounded like.
I watched them go into a room farther down, then slunk out from the bush and started toward the open door again. When I got close, I circled wide, keeping my distance.
A blast of hot air billowed from the room. I paused, letting it chase some of the night chill from my bones. Then I scooted around to the far side and peered through the open doorway. The man was inside, lying on a bed, ankles crossed, reading a newspaper. He glanced around the edge at me, nodded and kept reading.
I inched toward the door, testing how close I'd need to get to feel that glorious warmth again. I was just close enough to feel the tugging tendrils of heat when the newspaper crackled. My nerve snapped and I bolted for the safety of the woods.
I didn't go back to my den though. It was getting late and morning would be coming. Morning meant breakfast. I dimly remembered breakfast. Maybe if I stuck around, I'd get more than the two meals a day he'd been providing so far. So I crawled under a bush and fell asleep.
Late that night, I woke up shivering. Louisiana was suffering through a cold snap that winter and even the clothing the man had provided didn't help much. I remembered that burst of heat from the motel room.
For a long time, I lay there, shivering, fear warring with discomfort. Finally, I leapt up and dashed for the motel. The door was still open. Inside, the man was asleep on the bed. I curled up in the doorway and went to sleep.
And so I let myself be domesticated. In the end, like any stray, I was conquered by the promise of continued food and shelter. Trust would take longer.
For at least a week I slept in the doorway, not letting him close the door no matter how cold the night got. One day, another man came by. While I hid in the bushes outside, the other man yelled at my man, motioning at the door. Money changed hands and the other man left. That was the first of many such exchanges I'd see in my life—cash buying tolerance for my idiosyncrasies.
After a few days, with the right amount of food for coaxing, the man convinced me to come inside the room. He left the door open, so this seemed safe.
By the bed was a huge mirror with a web of tiny cracks down one side. I glanced into it by accident and startled myself so badly I dove under the bed, provoking a spate of laughter from the man.
Pretending that I'd simply fallen under the bed, I pulled myself back up and looked into the mirror. Staring back at me was a puny runt of a kid. Disgust filled me. If I'd seen myself somewhere else, my first reaction would have been “easy pickings.” Definitely not the dangerous predator I liked to imagine myself.
I was skinny and filthy, from my ragged mop of yellow curls to my bare feet with gnarled toenails. Scabs and bruises covered my face and bare arms. The clothing—my third set so far—was
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