I was a kitten, just a few months old but something in me had already started to change. Maybe it was the early days of awareness kicking in, that growing sense of the world expanding beyond the limits of my small, warm corner on the ship. It wasn’t enough to watch from the sidelines—I had to be in it, to see the world for myself, feel it under my paws.
So, on one of Gunther's countless supply runs to Floating City, I clambered aboard after him, my tiny legs struggling to steady myself against the pull of the wind. Gunther wasn’t too thrilled to see me. His brow furrowed and his mouth set in that familiar line of exasperation. After a moment's pause, knowing that resistance was futile, he sighed and tucked me inside his heavy pea coat, my small body pressed against his warmth as the world outside turned colder and sharper.
The wind bit at us. It had a sharp edge, cutting through the air with a bite as crisp as the sea spray. The boat rocked beneath, but inside his coat, it was quiet and almost still. There, I nestled, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest and the muted roar of the wind lulling me into a kind of contented daze.
At the top of Gunther's ever-growing to-do list was a task that had, disturbingly, become routine—fetching rat meat from the vendor.
People didn’t use to eat rats. In times long past, it was scarcely imaginable that people would turn to rats for food. I recall the fragmented, almost dreamlike stories Jimmy would recount from his childhood—tales from the pre-Great Wrath world, when he lived on a farm. He spoke of a pastoral existence where cows, pigs, chickens, sheep, goats, and horses populated the land; their existence was as integral to life as the soil beneath one's feet.
In those days, people ate these animals. But they no longer exist. They didn't survive the Great Wrath. In this new reality, rats have become the primary source of meat, other than fish.
The rats were everywhere now, multiplying so rapidly that the city itself seemed alive with their presence, teeming with darting shadows that skittered just out of sight, lingering on the edges of perception.
Humans and cats, in a silent and unspoken alliance, worked side by side without hesitation, capturing as many of the vermin as possible. Rather than letting the carcasses go to waste, they were prepared and served for human consumption—scrubbed clean of grime, their wiry hair stripped away, gutted, and roasted over open flames.
The sizzling skins sent a smell into the air that made my mouth water. But Gunther looked torn. His expression betrayed a flicker of unease, as if this strange new food was something forbidden—something you shouldn’t crave but found yourself drawn to regardless. He wondered aloud if there was still a difference anymore between necessity and desire—or if those words had long since lost their meaning since the rebuilding after the Great Wrath.
As Gunther bent low, inspecting the live rats crammed within the wire cages beside the fryers, his attention was suddenly drawn to a figure approaching from the crowd. It was a man cradling a tattered box in his arms and he threw it before the rat vendor's feet. And from the box emerged the heads of several curious creatures– furry, short-legged, and floppy-eared. He referred to them dismissively as "mutts," declaring with a wry grin that they could potentially fast become the newest delicacy.
The vendor paused to examine the small, trembling creatures before her. Her weathered face furrowed with curiosity, and I, too, leaned in for a closer look—this was the first time I had ever laid eyes upon a member of the canine species.
She scratched her head thoughtfully, her brow knit in mild disbelief. "They don't look like they'd provide much meat," she said. “Rats are easier to fatten up, skin, and grill. They're less work, and they reproduce faster.”
The mutts whimpered. Their tails wagged furiously as though this was the moment they’d been waiting for—the moment the universe might tilt in their favor. They clambered over one another, paws scraping at the cardboard edges, trying to escape the box that held them in.
Among the pitiful assembly was one dog that stood out—a small, white creature with a striking patch of brown fur encircling his left eye, which stretched upward over his head, covered his ears, and ran down the length of his spine to the very tip of his tail. His appearance alone might have drawn attention, but it was his actions that truly set him apart. While the others cowered in their cardboard prison, this brave little dog, driven by an instinct for survival, made a desperate leap over the edge of the box. Summoning all the strength contained within his small, quivering frame, he threw himself boldly against the side of the box.
It wobbled, then tipped over. Its flimsy structure collapsed beneath the force of his will. What followed was chaos: barking, yelping, bodies skittering in all directions, minds overwhelmed by this sudden, disorienting freedom.
At that very moment, I leaped from the folds of Gunther’s pea coat. Gunther stumbled, startled by one of the frantic creatures zigzagging between his feet. Flailing his arms, he fought to regain his balance. But his efforts were in vain. He crashed into the stack of rat cages.
The impact was violent enough to jolt the cage doors open, and in an instant, the vendor’s prisoners—dozens of wild-eyed rats—seized their chance for freedom. They poured out in a desperate, squealing mass, scattering in every direction, eager to escape the foul confines of the death-stall that had, until moments ago, promised their grim end.
Amidst the sea of startled faces and stampeding feet, I spotted him again—the white dog with the unmistakable brown patch over his eye. He moved like a force of nature, weaving through the crowd, causing as much disruption as the rats now did. People shrieked and stumbled back, knocking over baskets and sending vendors stumbling. As I watched him disappear into the crowd, I felt a strange certainty come over me: this would not be the last time our paths would cross.
