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The Girl Looking for the Pet Shop This is the sort of thing that happens to you randomly, and it wrenches your heart at the same time that it makes you feel life is totally worth living. I was in a run-down section of town, in the store of a popular second-hand retailer chain. I wanted to buy some fishing rods, it's April now, and summer is almost upon us. I noticed this girl. She looked a bit run-down too, though she appeared to be young. She had that down-beat look about herself, that up-beat and abused children have. She was slim, which gave her an air of cocaine addiction, she wasn't overly clean, and it turns out she was shy. She was very good looking, inasmuch as all girls in their twenties who manage to say slim are very good looking. She had buck teeth, which I find appealing, mousy brown hair, which is my preference in hair colour. My ethnic background is of dark-haired people, and I like a woman with very light skin, and of a no-moustache assertion of pre-ethniticity. It took me five seconds to notice she had been following me. I turned into an isle to give her way, and she passed me as I was in the side-isle, but she stopped, and was not looking at merchandise. I came out of my hiding and proceeded toward the exit. She asked me, in a very thin, respectable, young, weak voice: "Excuse me, sir... brakljghr." I was at a watershed of behaivour; was she a hooker, trying to get a john, or was she something else? Should I

rudely send her on her way, or should I be nice like everyone else is in this town? I put on a nice smile, not a fake one, and leaned forward, and said, "sorry, young lady, I am a bit hard on hearing. Please repeat." I'm 59, and though I am only 5'4", she was every so slightly but still shorter than I. She said, "sir, do you know if there is a pet shop around here?" Her voice was weak, tiny, apologetic and fearful. I felt I was the one she most trusted in the entire store. I said, "sorry, young lady, I am here in this part of town for the first time in your life. And mine." She politely thanked me, and I left her there. I took a quick inventory of my sensations, to see if I could recall a feeling of someone pickpocketing me, should she have been working with a partner. No. There had been no pickpocketing, no hooking, no soliciting. She truly wanted only to know where the nearest pet shop was located. She had been ciricling me as someone approachable, non-threatening, acceptable to accost with a harmless, innocent question. This filled me with the infinite joy of feeling protective. The infinite joy of encountering innocence and harmlessness. The sight of a real maid in real distress, in real need of a real knight in real, shining, white armour. I felt like crying, of sentimentality, but I was still too commitment-phobic to make a go at this girl. God only knows where she'd come from. A poster child for a book by Charles Dickens. Used. Abused. Reused, reabused, recycled, and reabused again. End product of a series of foster homes, at the end of the line of the factory smell, falling off the belt of human bi-products. Every so beautiful, perfect, precious in her shining beauty of shamed and blamed existence. She was wonderful, she was a wonder. She was as close to a miracle as a human can be. She wanted... food. For her pet. She loved that animal, I surmise. She loved her cat or kitten more than she had ever felt loved by anyone. She loved the kitten with all the hot and burning tears that she had to choke back in her young life. She was out of the abused situation; she was living on welfare, probably, and she starved and she was lost, because her IQ was probably not high, either, but that's an unconfirmed opinion. She had one thing that was solid in her life at this time, and that was her pet; the love the pet gave her, and the love she had for her pet.

She drove herself into sacrifice for her pet: she asked a stranger. She was not normally that forward or that forceful. Need drives one sometimes to unethical, sometimes to criminal, and yet sometimes -- like this time -- to daring behaviour. She was much more withdrawn and shy on any given day than to accost a stranger. She was hungry, she felt the hunger of her miaoing cat, she felt the joy of feeling someone else's emotion, feeling some else's need, she was delirious with being needed by someone. She was in love with her own love she felt for her kitten. She would have bought that cat food if it cost her life. I left her there. I felt then, and I feel now, and will probably feel forever guilty for that... for using and abusing her. I used her because I gained some real, and strong emotions from my encounter with her. I used her because she enriched my life greatly by gifting me with the ability to cry that day. I abused her because all I did, was take, take, take from her; I have taken from her emotional riches, gold, ruby and diamonds in denominations of tears and an infinite joy of sorrow. Yet I never returned her anything of value for the great treasure she had given me. Heck, I could not even tell her where the nearest pet shop had been located. Funny how life can be a bitch, and yet at other times it resembles so totally a holographic fractal of metaphysical mirroring.