Free Pride by William Wharton

didn’t say mass. I tell how they’ve all disappeared except for one. I don’t tell about how I think Cannibal ate his brothers and sisters. I don’t even tell them his name is Cannibal.
    I tell about how this kitten was dying and still trying to fight me off, standing in the corner with his paws up and his mouth open. I tell how I took him home and tried to feed him and now I have him behind the furnace to keep warm.
    I stop and look at both their faces and try not to cry. Nobody says anything. Dad takes another sip of his coffee. Mom pours more tea in her cup.
    â€œYou’re probably covered with fleas, Dickie. If we have to shave your head and sprinkle you with flea powder you won’t be so happy about that .”
    She says it but she isn’t mad. She’s even smiling at me and I don’t quite understand. Dad puts his cup down, wipes his mouth with a paper napkin.
    â€œO.K., let’s go see this tiger cat of yours. He could already be dead. From what you say, I don’t know how you can keep him alive.”
    We go downstairs into the cellar. I go first with Dad behind me, then Laurel and Mom. I reach carefully behind the furnace and Cannibal is asleep but he’s still alive. I slide out the cloth with him on it before he knows too much what’s happening.
    I still haven’t told about stealing the milk and hamburger. I’m feeling once they see Cannibal it will be easier. When I get him out from behind the furnace, he rolls onto his stomach, looks at all of us, then rears up into his bear-lion position ready to fight our whole crowd. He looks even tinier than I remember. He’s rocking back and forth the way he did before and I’m afraid he’s going to fall over. Dad gets down squatting beside me.
    â€œMy goodness, Dickie, I think you’ve got yourself a miniature tiger or a lion here, all right.”
    He puts out his finger and Cannibal strikes out at it with his pointy teeth. Dad just lets him bite and pulls him out of the paint rag by his teeth and holds him in his other hand. Dad’s hands are so hard with calluses, cuts and bruises, he doesn’t seem to even notice a little kitten biting him.
    â€œYou’re a fierce little fellow, aren’t you there? Dickie, this is the smallest living cat I’ve ever seen. He must be some kind of runt in that litter.”
    â€œHe’s the only one who stayed alive, Dad, even if he is a runt. I’ve never met anybody who wants to stay alive so much. I think he might have some kind of little devil in him.”
    â€œDoes he or it have a name yet?”
    â€œCannibal.”
    He looks at me quickly, smiles, looks up at Mom.
    Dad runs his other finger over Cannibal’s head while Cannibal holds with his little teeth on to Dad’s finger desperately, feebly; rocking his head back and forth, sinking his teeth deeper into that hard flesh. I turn around to look at Mom. She’s standing with her arm around Laurel in our dark cellar and only one bare light bulb up in the rafters.
    â€œCan I keep him, Mom, please? I’ll do anything you say.”
    She’s looking at the top of the Argyrol bottle and the lid to the mayonnaise jar beside the paint cloth; I forgot all about them.
    â€œI’m sorry, Mom. I took some milk and even some little pinches of hamburger. He was starving to death and you weren’t home to ask.”
    I’m lying with the second part. The devil in me made me do that. But I’m wanting so much for her to let me keep Cannibal, not to get excited and start saying no before she can think too much about it. She stoops down beside Dad. She touches the back of Cannibal lightly as if she’s afraid fleas will climb up her arm.
    â€œWhy, Dick, this cat doesn’t have a tail. It doesn’t look like a cat at all.”
    â€œDearest, I’m not even sure it is a cat. Have you ever seen anything so tiny? And look at this color. I’ve never seen