Firmin by Sam Savage Page B

made my final dash into the Public Garden.
     
    The grass there was soft and smelled good and sweet. It was my first grass, and I ate some. The rain had stopped, and the sky was paling in the east. After crawling under parked cars, from car to car all the way up Tremont Street, my legs and the underparts of my body were black and matted with grit and oil. I cleaned myself as best I could, then crept under some bushes and slept. When I woke, the sun was shining, and I saw the trees. I had never seen real trees before. The bush I was hiding under was near a concrete path that ran all the way across the Public Garden. I looked out and saw people in nice clothes walking. Church bells were ringing. I had a strange detached feeling, as if I were seeing myself from above. A rat that should be dead was not dead. Weak and dirty but in no way dead, he was alive under a bush, and he had a plan.
     
    I watched the people walking, watched what they did with their hands. Were their hands talking? All morning I watched hands swing by sides, hide in pockets, pat down wind-ruffled hair, wave hello, point at squirrels, make fists, toss peanuts, pick noses, scratch crotches, and hold other hands. The hands all went busily about these affairs without ever speaking. I ate grass. Twice I darted out and pinched peanuts meant for squirrels. It was not enough. I had not eaten a real meal for over a day. I was feeling weak, and the weakness made me afraid.
     
    It was nearly dark when I saw them coming, two women and a little girl between them, walking up from Arlington Street. They were wearing nice clothes and had shiny shoes. Above the girl’s head the women’s hands were talking. I was sorry that I had not spent more time studying the pictionary so that I could understand what the hands were saying. My heart was pounding. I worried about my weakness, that in my fear and excitement I was going to faint. I watched as they came closer, and when they were close I rushed out into the middle of the walk, and my paws said ‘good-bye zipper.’ I tried to shout it by making my gestures as violent as possible. Good-bye zipper. Good-bye zipper. Absurdly, I tried to heighten the effect by squeaking as loud as I could. I could tell that I was getting through. The women and the girl had stopped and all three were staring open-mouthed. Good-bye zipper. I had to stand on my hind legs to say this, and in my enthusiasm I lost my balance and fell over backward. One of the women started making a breathy grunting sound, huh huh huh, she might have been laughing, and then the little girl screamed. I am not clear on the exact progression of events after that. Some people were shouting ‘Rat, rat!’ A man’s voice said, ‘Of course it’s not a squirrel,’ and another voice said, ‘It’s having a fit,’ and a third said, ‘Rabies,’ and then they all were talking at once. A man came with a walking stick and tried to poke me in the stomach. I was back on my feet and running, and the man tried to strike me with the stick. I heard it crack against the pavement, and then it went up in the air and whooshed and came down on my back just as I made the grass edge, and someone shouted, ‘Don’t hurt it.’ I got into the row of bushes and ran. I did not feel any pain but I knew that I was dragging something heavy behind me. I turned my head and saw that my left leg was twisted the wrong way. It did not move as I ran, and I dragged it behind me like a sack.
     
    The pain came in the night, and by the next morning I could barely haul myself forward using only my front legs, the pain was so huge. I ate grass. From my hiding place I watched a man feed squirrels. He was sitting on a bench near me with a paper sack in his lap, and the squirrels climbed up and took peanuts from between his fingers. Greed and Degradation among America’s Wildlife . After a while he seemed to get bored. He turned the sack upside down and all the peanuts spilled out on the bench and on the