[Jayne Osborn]

My friend’s dog got run over and I cried
all day at school. My guinea pig had died
as well, to make things worse. Mum – hard as nails –
thought keeping pets, and all that it entails,
an utter waste of time (apart from chickens
for food, that is). She’d yelled out, “W-h-a-t the Dickens…?”
at Dad, when he had made a lovely hutch
and bought “a dratted rodent ”. I would clutch
him close, and wonder why Mum hated him;
she didn’t love me either. On a whim,
the weekend Patch was killed we ran away,
my friend and I, unhappy kids. Next day
they found us, but my mother boxed my ears.
I still remember, after all these years:
“You’d think the world had ended. All this fuss!”
Mum said. We’d lost our pets: it had, to us.