When I adopted you and took you away from your Bengal siblings. I promised to love and provide for you until the end. You were wild, like a Tasmanian Devil in a cage. Your tiny claws ripped at the bars that confined you. I drove with you in the back seat of the car. You shook the travel carrier and yowled for freedom. I stopped twice to make sure you didn’t open the latch. I should have named you Houdini, but I chose Moy.
Moy, you moved with me from the city into the mountains. We exchanged a tiny balcony for wide fields. You brought me gifts to thank me: a mouse, a sparrow, a lizard. When night fell, and I made you come in, you protested with your tiny voice. But you curled up in a ball at my side, and your soft purr warmed my heart.
You were domesticated and undomesticated. You opened doors and cupboards. You climbed on windowsills; you leaped over barriers. You wanted freedom. But when I let you out, you did not stray for long or adventure very far. You tapped at the window, and I let you in. Then, you curled up beside me and let me love you.
Your precious heart weakened. I nursed you. But you weren’t better, were you? Your untamed spirit sought freedom from the constraints of your failing organs. My promise was hard to keep. I caressed your head as your spirit escaped – a final deliverance.
Lucy Carr Icard is an MFA student at Southern New Hampshire University. Her stories have been published in The Penmen Review and October Hill Magazine. Her work is strongly influenced by her 35 years in France, her childhood in Maine, and her zealous imagination.