The life of Boris

Only a few weeks ago, I was born in a scrapyard near the city of Antequera, in Andalusia, in the south of Spain, and I can tell you that late October is not a good time to be born here. It’s cold and cloudy, wind blows like mad, it rains without pause, and lightning is almost nonstop.

Every now and then, hail rattles on the sheet of corrugated steel that balances on a small rock under which my sisters, brothers, and I huddle together. Together we are warm, true, but we are also hungry, and Mama isn’t one for much motherly responsibility. Whenever she passes our hideout – not often – we wobble into the daylight, bite her legs, and beg her to lie down, so we can feed on her milk. Grumpy Mama mostly ignores us, and so, we seek dead insects and whatever else we dare to eat and is within reach of our little legs. Water is not a problem. We lick it from blades of grass or drink it from puddles.

When the sun is out, we dry ourselves in its rays amidst building materials and scrap. We look around in amazement and fight the fleas, which eat us alive. During one of those rare sunny moments, one of my brothers, smaller than the building bricks piled in heaps all around us, drags a bag of bread rolls our way. We barely ever see human beings, but one of them must have lost the bag or maybe tossed it to us out of pity. We manage to open the bag and eat until our bellies are about to burst, which is stupid. Dazed by the sensation of a full belly, I don’t notice a human being creeping up to where I doze in the sunlight. Before I realize what is happening, I am grabbed and shoved into the pocket of a coat.

I gnaw at the hand that keeps me in that pocket, which is maybe stupid, but Mama looked like a Yorkie and Papa looked like a Jack Russell, which makes me a terror terrier—ha, ha. But maybe I shouldn’t make fun of the situation. Maybe I should accept that I’m in trouble, and maybe, just maybe, I should try honey instead of vinegar. I’ve been stuffed in this pocket for half an hour now. I’m sweating like mad, and for all the fuzz I’m making, I don’t seem to impress the woman or man the hand I’m still gnawing at belongs to. Or do I? I’m taken out of the pocket and tossed into the wet grass beside the path we’re walking on, the people who took me walking on, laughing. I try to catch up but can’t, for I can barely walk. Oh man …

As days pass by, I grow weaker and weaker. Rain alternates with the occasional hour of sunlight. No cover anywhere, and most of the time, I shiver with cold. What if a hawk or an eagle has it in for me? Or a fox? I’m scared, miss my sisters and brothers, miss even Mama. I am so young. I want to live. I’ll be a good boy forever and ever, but …

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