MY FIRST PET

By Kate Stanton

I was 11 when I decided that several years of (mostly) good behaviour had ultimately proven unsatisfactory. What did I have, besides a loving family and a roof over my head? NOTHING. For a few months – a lifetime in kid-years – I’d been denied the thing I wanted most; the one thing that would bring joy and purpose to my dull, insignificant life. It was time to carpe diem and unshackle myself from the draconian constraints of my household. It was time to get a pet.

My family moved around a lot, and the party line was that we couldn’t have a dog, cat, or even a gerbil when we were constantly leaving the country for god knows where. It might sound glamorous, but the thing about being a jetsetter is that you can’t bring Fluffy along for the ride. My parents were diplomats, and we lived in a small apartment in 1990s Beijing. We had to boil our drinking water, and local government operatives bugged our air vents. Mum said she already had enough to worry about, thanks very much.

I ached for a ‘normal’ childhood, one with a backyard and Saturday morning cartoons. My nan, who was anxious about my cultural education, mailed us VHS recordings of American TV shows. From those tapes I learnt that other families had lovable golden retrievers with great comedic timing. I watched , where a girl hatches baby geese that follow her everywhere and repair her relationship with her estranged father. My parents tried