Mommy says my goldfish ran away today. This is the third fish that’s run away. She never tells me where they go. Just that they’re not here, they’ve gone. Vanished. When the dog ran away, I knew first. I saw the hole in the wall. I saw the fur caught in the rough edges of the break. The traces of her left behind. Sometimes I think I see her around. Like she never left the neighborhood. Not knowing anywhere else to go. That’s the secret they taught me. The fish whispered how easy it was to silently disappear and the dog showed me that it took work and rough edges. But neither of them have been caught. At least, I hope Ruff avoided the dog catchers. Or if they caught her that they took her to a place where someone took care of her, and she can find a new family. That seems possible for dogs.
When I run away, I know where I’m going. I’m going to leave quiet – right in the morning, just when everyone’s waking up. I have a bag. I have my bolt-hole. I will bolt out of the back door quiet as a fish and run. Run even if it hurts. Run far and fast. Then I will walk and walk and walk until I come to the big stone buildings, covered in moss and I will climb there. Hide there. I know you have to have somewhere to go. Vanishing is a complicated trick. You need a special place. A possible place. Somewhere big yet cozy. Somewhere with people, but not too close. A safe busy place with many edges, but not too many doors. Somewhere above where the things that chase can’t find you. I found it by following the books. It was the loveliest place I’ve ever seen. And way up top above the shelves I’ll make a room for myself. Maybe my fish and dog will find me there. Maybe not. Probably not. But mostly, I’ll be gone. I’ll leave tomorrow.