The Mark of Arrow

Arrow has come out of his shell. A month ago, when he first came to our house, he was shy. Quiet. He brought out the beast in me. I hid all the bones and chews. I attacked him when he took stuff. He moped around. I was king.

Then he started playing. Chewing up papers. Wrestling a little. Fighting back when I grabbed him by the ear. When we were alone he ran up and down the stairs carrying things and chewing them.

Now he wants to play all the time. If I ignore him and try to take a nap, he barks. Constantly. Loud.

He has left his mark everywhere. Shredded papers and plastic bags. He likes wood. He chewed the blinds. They tasted pretty good. The chair. He likes knitting stuff. I’ve gnawed on a few needles, bamboo or plastic—not the metal ones. But Arrow likes to take the yarn and run around with it. I think he is part spider.











He gets this crazed look on his face and there is no stopping him.