I suppose this prison could have been worse. At least I ate well.

Please do not misunderstand me. I hated the food. I ate the same meal every day, a predetermined portion of nutrition pellets. I suspect it was a compound of meat, starch, fat, and vegetables. The warden slid a bowlful to me across the prison floor every morning.

Occasionally he served me a coarse slurry comprised of meat and gravy. The meat was not fresh. I have always preferred to hunt and kill my own meat. I will admit that in the days before my capture, fresh meat was hard to come by. I was able to trap the occasional bird or small mammal, but there were long stretches between kills. At points I was so hungry that I started to scavenge for plants, but I was unaccustomed to identifying and digesting them. I could not keep anything green down for long. 

When my captor brought me to this prison, I found that the food was not good, but its delivery was consistent. I ate my fill every day. I relied on it. I am soft and lazy.

Another reason why this prison could have been worse is because it was well lit. I had two windows in my cell, and I passed the time of my confinement by looking out of them. The view was the same every day, but I noticed subtle changes in the environment because my powers of observation are superior. 

I watched the seasons change. When the days grew short, the leaves fell and squirrels gathered nuts. When the days grew long, the birds chattered away in the branches. I often muttered about how easy it would be to capture them for food. But I knew that my daily rations sated my appetite. This habit was merely a morsel of nostalgia. 

Though the snow came in one season and the sun warmed the glass in another season, the air in my cell neither waxed in heat nor waned in cold. I was always comfortable.

The warden had provided, for my recreation, a single ball. I would kick it across my cell and run after it. Then I would kick it and run after it again. It was a simple pastime, but the warden was a simple man. One must keep one’s expectations low while in confinement.

This prison was understaffed. The warden performed the entire upkeep. In addition to providing food and recreation, he cleaned the lavatory in the corner of my cell. 

I hazard this criticism: he would neglect my toilet. It did not flush; I was, therefore, reliant on the warden to collect my waste. But he was inconsistent. I would often visit the lavatory only to confront waste from my last four visits. 

I used to count the days of my confinement, etching tally marks into my wooden prison chair. The warden became irate when he discovered my project. I attempted to resume tallying several more times. The warden grew increasingly livid at each encounter with my marks. One day he moved the chair from my cell, and with it went the knowledge of the duration of my captivity.

I remember my life before I was taken to prison. I lived on a farm. I came from a big family. My father, whom I never met, was a rootless vagrant. Mother raised my brothers, sisters, and me alone on the farm. She kept us fed and clean.

When I was old enough to leave, I set out from the farm to wander like my father before me. I never held down a job, but instead begged for food and scrounged for discarded scraps. I was free. 

I was also more often hungry than happy.

My belly has always been my downfall. On the day I was apprehended, I was meandering through an alleyway between two buildings in a large city. Food establishments do not serve my kind, but they also do not supervise the food they throw away.

Suddenly a man appeared in the alleyway. He said something to me that I could not understand.

“What?” I asked.

He repeated the phrase. It sounded jumbled and strange, like someone was talking underwater. Sometimes I dream strange scenes. It occurred to me I was actually asleep.

“I do not understand you. Please enunciate,” I said. 

He ran up and took hold of me.

“This is irregular. Unhand me, sir,” I said.

He dragged me to a car parked on the street, shoved me in the backseat, and drove off. I panicked. I grabbed the door handle but could not open it.

It turned out that it was not a dream after all. I have been imprisoned ever since. I do not remember a trial, nor do I understand any legal system, but I am sure that arriving at a guilty verdict was easy. I was an unkempt mendicant in the wrong place at the wrong time. It happens more often than you realize.

Once, the warden brought another prisoner to my cell. He was a former vagabond like I was, only with dark hair and an unpleasant visage. He was most unwelcome. He not only devoured his food, but he also hit me and stole my rations. He butted in during recreation ball time. He yelled curses at me. We fought constantly until finally, the warden removed him from my cell and transferred him to another prison.     

Though I have lost track of how many days I have been here, I do know it was a long time ago. When I arrived, I was skinny. Now I am fat.

I had settled comfortably into the prison routine until the day when my small world drastically changed. It was strange and I was suspicious, but it was altogether not unpleasant.

For the first time, my warden hired a new guard.

At first she worked part time shifts on an ad hoc basis. The warden had always been somewhat aloof and laissez-faire; the new guard was much more involved. She played recreation ball with me. She began to visit the prison more often. She filled in the gaps in lavatory custodial duties. She brought better food at mealtimes.

It slowly dawned on me that she had become a full-time employee of the prison. Not only that, my warden had been demoted and the guard had taken over the role. My surroundings improved. My lavatory was clean. The new warden oversaw furniture upgrades. 

One day, I watched the warden instruct the guard to build a narrow doorway in the prison antechamber where the guards stored their coats. From my vantage point, I observed that on the other side of the doorway, there was another prison antechamber identical to the one in which I sat. When the installation was complete, I nodded in approval at the new warden’s prison expansion program.

I approached the new doorway to inspect what was on the other side and I suddenly froze. Tension rippled through my body as my brain scrambled to decide whether to attack or flee. 

There was another prisoner on the other side of the doorway, wild-eyed, crouched in anticipation. 

I do not know how long we stared at each other, two combatants ready to strike and defend. Eventually I noticed something strange: my new mortal enemy had adopted a strategy of mimicking my movements. His ragged breathing undulated in sync with mine. When I blinked, so did he. I began to back up almost imperceptibly. And so did he.

I gaped, puzzled, until I realized that I knew that face. 

The wide, hazel eyes. The short ginger hair. The single curling muzzle whisker. The striped tail. 

I was looking at my reflection. It was the same reflection I had seen on occasion, faint impressions on my cell windows as I watched squirrels and birds. 

As I eased my body out of its tension, so did the reflected prisoner. Relief washed over me. It seemed that, at least for today, I would not be sharing my cell with another prisoner. I would not have another’s waste in my toilet. I could eat, I could play, I could nap in peace. And what’s more, my new warden was attentive, responsive, and generous.

I suppose this prison could be worse, I thought to myself.

Then I sauntered over to my bowl and began to eat.