Most of us have a pet, and we often love them very much. That is exactly what this chapter is about.
The first time I had a pet, it wasn't Pai; I had other pets before him. One of them was a cat. There were a lot of mice in my house. Once, my brothers and I were watching TV in the second-floor living room, and a mouse's head popped out from a crack in the ceiling. We got scared, and my brother Peter tried to kill it with a broom, but it escaped. Then, we told our parents about it:
US: —Mom, Dad, we were watching TV and out of nowhere a rat came out of a crack and stared right at us. Do something! DAD: —Yeah, you're right. The other day I was in the bathroom and one ran right over my feet. US: —Weren't you scared of it?! DAD: —Why would I be? It's just a tiny little thing. US: —You are so weird. DAD: —Actually, you guys are the weird ones for being afraid of mice and cockroaches. ME: —That's true, but let's get back to the point: you have to do something. MOM: —A few days ago, the lady we rent to downstairs offered us a cat, but no way, how gross, it sheds hair! US: —It doesn't matter now, ask her! MOM: —Go ask her yourselves, her shop hasn't closed yet. Go ask. US: —Okay.
We ran down the stairs from the third and fourth floors and found the lady closing up.
PETER: —Good afternoon, señito. ME: —Hello. HER: —Good afternoon, boys. PETER: —Sorry to take up your time, Doña Blanca, but my mom told me you offered her a cat. She said no before, but lately we've been seeing a lot of rats, and I was wondering if you still have the cat. HER: —Of course I do… How about I bring it over tomorrow? PETER: —That sounds good to me.
THE NEXT DAY
The señito came upstairs and gave us a small cat. She said it was still a bit too small to hunt rats… "Oh, and be careful, it might end up being afraid of you guys."
US: —Okay.
We were so happy; it was the first time we ever had a cat as a pet. After she handed us the box with the animal, we went up to the second floor where we lived, since the first floor was rented out. We walked in.
US: —Mom, come here, it's here! ME: —Open the box. MOM: —No, no, no, it's going to escape! Take it upstairs right now and keep it up there. US: —Alright.
We opened the box.
ME: —Hello, michi. PETER: —Oh, look, it's a black cat… People say they bring bad luck. ME: —You better shut up, he's just a michi, you might scare him.
When we opened the box wider, the cat bolted out and hid inside a narrow 10cm passageway. Since we couldn't fit in there, we couldn't catch him.
ME: —Now what? PETER: —Don't worry about it… He's stuck in that little passageway, there's no way out. He's too small to climb the wall and the wall is way too big… We just have to win over his trust. ME: —And how do we do that? PETER: —Easy. Tell my mom the cat is hungry and she'll give you money to buy canned tuna for cats. It will cost two soles at most.
DOWN THE STAIRS FROM THE THIRD TO THE SECOND FLOOR
ME: —Mom, the cat is hungry, give me money to buy grate (canned tuna). MOM: —Alright, go. It should cost you two soles at most. ME: —Okay, give it to me then. MOM: —Here you go.
Then I went out to the little market downstairs and asked the lady at the grocery store:
ME: —Good morning, do you have canned tuna for cats? SEÑITO: —Sure, Angel… Here you go (looks for it). ME: —How much is it? SEÑITO: —1.50 soles. ME: —Oh okay, here you go… Oh, and can you give me a 50-centavo gelatina too? SEÑITO: —Sure, take it.
Since I knew that if I went upstairs with the gelatina they would yell at me, I tucked it against my back, which made me sting because it was ice cold.
ME: —Mom, I bought it. MOM: —Then bring it here so I can mix it with rice and some lentils. ME: —What! Is lunch ready already? It's barely… (looks at the clock) 11:00? Is it really that late? I thought it was 8:00 a.m. MOM: —Yes, time flies by.
Since I couldn't stand the freezing cold of the gelatina on my back anymore, I told her:
ME: —Mom, I'll be right back, I'm going to the bathroom. MOM: —Yes, go ahead.
I rushed up to the third floor and took the gelatina out of its little bag.
ME: —It's so sweet (whispers). PETER: —Is the tuna ready… (sees me) Oh, give me some! ME: —Fine, take half. MOM: —Angel, come here, it's ready! ME: —Yes, I'm coming!
When I went downstairs, I grabbed the plate and headed back up.
ME: —Alright, here it is.
My brother fed him, and even though he didn't come out right away because of our presence, we stepped back and then he came out. We repeated this for several days until he finally came out completely. He became our pet, and we pet him all the time.
PETER: —He's domesticated now, but what should we name him? ME: —In high school I asked around for names and most people told me: name him Negro, Negrito, Penumbra, Chimuelo, Noche. PETER: —Man, I don't know, those names don't convince me. Any other? ME: —Oh! I know. What if we name him GATUTO? PETER: —Why? ME: —I don't know… Last week my mom said the cat came over and played with a rat right at her feet, then killed it and ate it. After that, he ate the whole thing and now my mom gives him a bit more meat and less rice. I don't know, I think that name suits him better just for being a cat, or do you want his name to be Tobi? PETER: —Yeah, you're right, that's a good name.
Since he was little, Gatuto showed he could hunt. After that, he kept growing until he reached the size of a normal cat. One thing that scared us about Gatuto was that his green eyes looked creepy at night; once I heard cats meowing and it sounded like they were talking to each other, that scared me.
One time we were in my room playing with toys with my brother Peter, and we heard some noises and a little bird. When we went to check, we saw that a little bird was trapped in a plastic bag. Oh, by the way, the third-floor section is split in half into two sides: one side where we live, which is completely closed off with an entrance to the roof, and the other side which isn't closed off and is still missing bricks. We heard Gatuto on that side and went over; we found a little bird stuck in a plastic bag, took it to my room and checked it, untangled it from the plastic, and let it go. Then we played with Gatuto.
One time my dad was around the market and bought baby broiler chickens, and we grew very attached to them. We put them inside a styrofoam box with a small crack so they could breathe; there were about four to six of them (I don't remember the exact number). But it turned out that one day we came home from church, and when we went upstairs, I realized Gatuto wasn't around. We called him and called him, but he didn't show up.
ME: —Gatuto, Gatuto… Peter, Gatuto is missing. PETER: —Have you checked everywhere? Even inside the chicken box? ME: —Oh, the chicken box!
My brother and I opened the box and saw that the cat was tucked in tightly with the chickens, sleeping right there, the dirty thing.
ME: —Oh, what a scare! He didn't do anything to them.
After that, every time we went out, he would always get inside the box; it must have been because of the cold, even though cats have fur. Later on, the chickens grew up and we put them in a cage, and we also chose one for each of us with its own name. I had mine. But the time came to kill them; I didn't know what killing meant and I believed that chicken meat was just when a chicken died naturally and they cut it up, but my dad and my brother did know. Then Peter told me:
PETER: —Angel, uncle Joshe came over. He says we should go to Cruz de la Esperanza because our cousins just arrived. ME: —Oh okay, I'll tell Luka.
If I had stayed at that moment, they would have survived. Unfortunately, that wasn't the first time; Peter had already owned chickens before, and after a certain amount of time, everyone would eat them.
When I came back home and saw what had happened, I couldn't eat. They had made chicken soup and rice with beans and chicken. When I asked my brother, he gave me the sad reality. I stood up to him, since they had also killed his hen, and he told me that yes, he already knew, that he loved his hen but since it was my dad, he could only let it happen. At that moment, knowing the truth, I stopped talking to my parents and brothers for a week; I would only tell them "yes" or "no".
Only two chickens were left, the smallest ones. To save them, I lied and said one of the two was sick and that they should send it to Aunt Mari's house so it could get cured. They listened to me and sent it to my aunt's, and it was the best choice. My aunt thought just like me; she took care of it. Weeks passed by, and she told me:
AUNT: —Angel, the chicken you gave me can't walk, its legs are paralyzed, lame. So I think the best thing to do is to sacrifice it to end its suffering.
When I saw the chicken looking sad, I pet it and said goodbye. Then they sacrificed it and I didn't eat lunch, but this time I didn't cry because I knew he had lived his last few days happily.
(I think we should all be vegetarians to prevent so many deaths. Billions of chickens die every year. For example, my real self grew up eating chicken, every meal had its piece of chicken, and now I have tried to consume less, not insisting on eating out, since in Peru everything is pollo a la brasa, and the best option is to not eat it or eat less to avoid many deaths. Even though many consider the chicken a brainless or inferior animal, it is still a life and we shouldn't kill it just because of that. I hope you understood, and if not, keep going as you are, it's your choice; mine is already made. If it sounds like I want to impose my views on you or something like that, forgive me or just ignore me).
But let's leave this behind and move on to the next part.
THE SCAM
My mom sent us to buy groceries at the market. Not the one downstairs, since they only sold chicken, fish, meat, groceries, and fruits (one or two vegetables, but mostly fruits).
So she sent an 8-year-old and an 11-year-old boy, which was kind of weird because we were still little, to the market ten blocks away from the house. It was closer to my aunt's house than ours. When we got to the market, we bought the things, but we saw a carioco chick and thought it was cute. It was cheap, so we bought it. My mom scolded us for that purchase, since by buying the chick we had to buy lower-quality groceries, but oh well, she said we could keep it.
Then, the next day she yelled at us again because it looked like it was dying since it was sick. We gave it its medicine and gave it to our aunt, who knew how to raise it. It stayed with her for a long time; we went to take care of it every single day. But when it grew older, my relatives came over to eat and several aunts decided to kill it. I didn't eat it and, although I felt sad, I saw that it had lived a long life. Oh, and the other broiler chicken, unfortunately, died just like the previous ones.
THANK YOU FOR WATCHING!