Your First Pet and the Street You Grew Up On

She’s not quite woman’s best friend

- KILEY REID

When I came back to Tucson for Christmas break, my mom was like, “You need to clean out your closet or you’re not going anywhere.” This was her way of being dumb about the fact that I’d gained a few pounds since I’d started college, but I was like fine ’cause it was whatever. I was going to buy new shit anyway. My high school friends were having a reunion, Aaron Trujillo was going to be there, and I was obviously going too. So I took a huge trash bag into my closet and started filling it up with stuff I hadn’t worn or touched in years. But when I pulled out a very old Halloween costume from when my high school friends and I were Bath & Body Works flavors, underneath it, there was Magenta.

“Oh my God.”

“Oh Jesus.” She put her little claw in front of her face. “Shit.

That’s—that’s a lot of light.…”

“Magenta?”

The plastic cage sat on a shelf next to my old yearbooks and duffel bags. It looked exactly the same. Neon pipes, pink hamster wheel, some toilet paper tubes, and a shit ton of mulch. But Magenta was different. She looked a few years older than me, or maybe just more mature. There was new white fur underneath her eyes.

When I was little she walked quietly on all fours, but now she stood up like she had somewhere to be. On top of her gray fur Magenta wore a silky floral robe that she kept fixing and a teeny pair of Uggs that looked like they’d been in the rain. She held her robe closed, and then she waved.

“What are you…how are you still here?”

“Hey, Natalie.” Magenta half laughed. “Hey — listen, this doesn’t have to be weird. You grew up, you know? You had other things to do. And honestly, I totally understand.” She pushed a tuft of fur behind her left ear.