Uriel Ruddock, Keeper of Lions, walked the beastesses to town and back, a lax leash, the sight of wayfarers on the highway, the delight of those on the low road: they marked the furniture, did the cats, with deliberate ease, ripping to shreds ancient inexpensive sofas, wide-winged chairs, leather DAVENPORTS and scrawling poems in the wood that only future lions could or would read: he was evicted time and again“NO ONE IS ALLOWED TO HAVE PETS IN THIS BUILDING!’
--the relationship was scarcely that but Uriel knew the ears he must speak into, and so he simply moved in and out, smuggling in in trunks, refrigerators crates and giant sleeping bags the tawny females and one immensely maned roarer of a male, no longer jealous having had his good lot—only to be evicted when discovered, necessitating new charades until someone
IT WOULD NOT BE URIEL
stopped looking, stopped saying, and always he moved back in in graces: he was that sort, even with landlords: here, an old English lady. (Everyone of course knew she kept a secret tiger in the cellar.)
©2006-Allen Sutterfield
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