Fiction by Ben Daggers
By Ben Daggers
Stripped dog carcasses glistened under the glare of the
butcher shop’s fluorescent bulbs. Grace hobbled to the counter, where Samuel,
the ruddy cheeked and heavy set butcher, was preparing fresh meat for the
display. Samuel put down the cleaver, wiped his hands on his apron and flashed Grace
a wide smile.
“Morning, Mrs. Worthington. What’ll it be today? Something for you, or something for little Pinkie?”
“Not so little anymore, thanks to you. Look at how she’s grown!” Grace took a Polaroid out of her purse and dropped it onto the counter. Samuel studied the photo. A hairless, wrinkled creature sat in its fur-lined pet bed, pinprick eyes staring blindly into the distance. Two enormous front teeth jutted out from the animal’s short pink snout.
“She’s a beauty, no doubt about it,” said the butcher. “Half makes me want to get a mole rat of my own.”
“Oh, but you must!” said Grace. “There’s a reason why they’re such popular pets. Beautiful, obedient, and talk about affectionate! Why, Pinkie would spend every minute of the day with me if I let her.”
“It does sound tempting,” said Samuel, picking up his cleaver and chopping some cat ribs off the bone with a loud crunch. “As you know, I am a bit of an animal lover myself.”
“That you are, Samuel. And with a heart of gold to match. Are you still giving money to the Midlands Gopher Sanctuary?”
Samuel nodded. “Every month for two years straight. Last week they sent me this.” He pointed the end of his cleaver at a laminated poster on the back wall. It showed a dozen gophers frolicking in a vast shrubland. “See that writing at the bottom?”
Grace squinted to read through the streaks of cat blood.
“It says Gold Star Gopher Giver,” said Samuel, a hint of pride creeping into his voice. “I don’t do it for the plaudits, though. I do it because I care. I’d save every last rodent if I had the means.”
Grace nodded earnestly. “And that’s why I’ll never buy my meat from anywhere else. Talking of which, I’d like two dachshund tenderloins and a small bag of those.” She waggled a bony finger at some dried tabby ears in the display window. “The vet says I shouldn’t, but I just can’t help spoiling my little Pinkie-Poo.”
Grace made her way home from the butcher’s shop with a heart filled with gratitude and a shopping bag filled with meat.
She jangled her keys in the door. Usually, this would elicit the excited scrape of rodent claws on terracotta tile, but today, she was greeted with silence. “Aw, my little Pinkie-Pea must be sleeping,” she said to herself.
Grace shuffled her way inside, past a series of framed photos showing Pinkie in all manner of outfits, from miniature sweaters and hoodies to a tiny Santa Claus costume. She poked her head into the living room. “Where are you, Pinkie-Pie? It’s time to rise and shine. I’ve brought your favourite chew treats.”
Grace glanced towards the rodent bed in the corner of the living room. Instead of the wrinkled pink mass of her precious pet, there was nothing but a crumpled blanket.
“Pinkie?”
Grace rushed to the kitchen to find the moleflap swinging loosely on its hinges. “I must have forgotten to lock it,” she cried, “and now my poor baby’s wandered out!”
She searched the back garden, poking her walking stick around the rotting leaves below her hedgerow, but there was no sign of the animal. After returning inside and scouring every room of the cluttered house three times over, Grace collapsed into her chair, sobbing. She was interrupted by a phone call from next door neighbour and rumour merchant Ada.
“Grace, you’ll never guess what Charlotte from the PTA just told me. Apparently John Sinclair was caught with—”
“Ada, not right now! Pinkie is missing!” Grace erupted into tears once more.
“Oh sweetie, that’s terrible! Where have you looked?”
“Everywhere,” said Grace. “The house. The garden. My baby’s gone!”
“Remember what happened when Mr. Wrinkles—God rest his soul—went missing a few years ago?” asked Ada.
“Didn’t he show up at the rubbish tip at the end of Leacroft Road?”
“Exactly. He’d snuck over there for some scraps. I’m sure Pinkie’s done the same.”
“I’ll head there now. The number six bus is due outside mine in five minutes.”
The autumn sun was still high in the sky when Grace arrived at the rubbish tip. She pinched her nose as she walked through the rows of damp cardboard and leftover food, checking left and right as she went. When she neared the end of the tip, a faint rustle under a mound of Labrador sausage packaging caught her attention.
“Pinkie, is that you?”
Grace pushed the plastic container aside with her stick to reveal a pair of kittens, wire-thin and covered in welts. They looked up at Grace and mewed.
“Ugh, vermin!” she screamed, making a beeline for the exit.
Grace trudged the mile-and-a-bit back home, breaking the news of her missing mole rat to the half dozen neighbours she passed along the way. She was on friendly terms with everyone in the neighbourhood except the Li family, who’d moved in three doors down the previous summer. Grace had tolerated them for as long as she could, but tensions overflowed after the father—Xiong, or Qiong, or some such unpronounceable name—had been obtuse enough to complain about the cat traps which Grace had laid out on her front lawn. She hurried past the Li residence and into her own home, crumpling onto the sofa.
Grace tried to relax with a well-deserved cup of tea, but attempts to take her mind off Pinkie were futile. Every nook and cranny of the house was filled with reminders of her absent rodent, from the mole rat-decorated tea cosy in her kitchen to the custom-printed calendar in her living room. October’s photo, featuring Pinkie in Count Dracula cape and miniature wig, stared out from above the mantlepiece, sending a wave of melancholy rippling through her.
Grace headed for Ada’s house in search of distraction. Ada greeted Grace with a sympathetic hug. “You poor thing. Come in, I’ve just baked a lemon drizzle cake.”
“That was Pinkie’s favourite!” sobbed Grace. “Besides, I couldn’t eat a morsel knowing my baby’s wandering about God knows where.”
“How about a cuppa instead?” suggested Ada. “I’ve just brewed a pot.”
Grace nodded meekly, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. More tears gushed forth as she looked at the mole rat pattern embroidered on the fabric.
“You’ll have to have it black, I’m afraid,” continued Ada, shepherding her friend into the living room and pouring out a mug of steaming hot tea. “I’ve had a dicky tummy for the last month and a bit, and the doctor says it’s the Saint Bernhard milk that’s to blame. I tried one of those plant milk alternatives, but it’s not a patch on the real thing.”
“You’re a braver woman than me,” said Grace. “There’s something so… I don’t know, so unnatural about the whole thing. In fact, I don’t know why they’re able to get away with calling it milk.”
The two ladies sipped their teas in contemplative silence, worry hanging over them like a grey cloud. “You don’t think it could be…” said Ada, her voice fading out mid-sentence. “Forget it, I’m probably fussing about nothing.”
“Out with it, woman,” said Grace. “If it has anything to do with my Pinkie, I want to hear it.”
“I was just thinking about the Li family at number twenty two. What with them being, you know, Chinese and everything—”
“You can’t possibly mean—”
“I saw it on the telly, Grace. They eat them. For food.”
The words hit Grace like a grenade. She reeled back in her chair and began to wail.
“But let’s not jump to conclusions,” said Ada, forcing as much composure into her voice as she could muster. “I’m sure I’m overreacting. Still, maybe it’s worth scoping the place out to see what you can find?”
Grace, walking stick in hand, click-clacked her way to number twenty two. Instead of ringing the bell, she shuffled through the side alley to the back garden. The lawn was brown and balding, strewn with children’s toys and a well-worn swing set in the centre. Grace crept up to the kitchen window and peered inside. Mr Li was at the dining table, a half-eaten sandwich in his hand.
“Dear God, don’t let that be Pinkie-Pip,” she whispered to herself, crossing her heart with a shaky hand. As Mr. Li went in for another bite, a sharp, involuntary scream escaped Grace’s lips. Mr. Li swung around to the source of the noise. He opened the kitchen window and peered out.
“Mrs. Worthington, can I ask what you’re doing in my garden?” Mr. Li’s tone was gentle, despite his obvious surprise.
“Only if I can ask what you’re eating.” Grace arched an eyebrow of distrust towards her neighbour. “Or should I say, who you’re eating.”
“I’m not sure this particular onion had a name,” said Mr. Li.
“Don’t give me that. I know what you people are like. You’re chowing down on my Pinkie Poos, admit it!”
“First of all, what do you mean ‘my people?’ I grew up in Stoke-on-Trent. Second of all, I didn’t eat your mole rat. As a matter of fact, I don’t eat animals of any type, Mrs. Worthington. Not cats, nor dogs, nor anything else.”
“But… but… what do you eat, then?”
“Plants, Mrs. Worthington. I eat plants.”
Grace stared blankly at Mr. Li, struggling to make sense of what he’d just said. “Why?” was all she could manage in response.
“For the same reason you wouldn’t eat a mole rat,” said Mr. Li. “Because it’s cruel. The way I look at it, a dog or a cat off the street has just as much right to life as that pet of yours.”
“How dare you!” screamed Grace, her face now contorted into a rage-filled scowl. “To compare our beloved national symbol—not to mention my poor, defenseless, missing baby—to filthy, rabies-infested, feral beasts is beyond the pale.”
Grace turned on her heels, swishing her walking stick menacingly in the air as she went. When she reached her front garden, Grace stopped in her tracks. At the edge of the lawn was Pinkie, her leg clamped in the steel jaws of a cat trap. “My poor Pinkie Poos!” cried Grace, forcing her creaking spine forwards as she bent down to rescue the stricken animal. Summoning the sort of superhuman strength that only emerges in life-threatening crises, Grace prized the jaws open with her bare hands. Pinkie plopped to the ground with a whimper, then buried herself in the folds of Grace’s floral dress.
The teeth of the trap had left two deep puncture marks in Pinkie’s rear leg, but had miraculously missed the bone. After disinfecting and dressing the wound, Grace carried her shellshocked rodent into the kitchen.
“You must be famished, poor baby! Let me rustle up one of your favourites—mashed carrot and potato.”
Grace peeled and boiled the vegetables, before adding in some fresh herbs and mashing it all together with a fork until the consistency was just right. She put the bowl down, and Pinkie limped towards it.
“Today” said Grace, patting Pinkie on the head. “I think my little wounded soldier deserves a special treat.”
Grace took out one of the Dachshund steaks from the fridge, chopped it into small cubes which she dropped into Pinkie’s bowl.
As Grace watched her beloved rodent gobble down raw chunks of dog, Mr. Li’s words began ringing in her head. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps there was more she could be doing for the animals. She reached for her pocket address book, flicking through until she’d found the number she was looking for.
“Is that the Midlands Gopher Sanctuary? I’d like
to make a donation.”
LA BRASSERIE BIENVEILLANTE
TODAY’S MENU
STARTER - £14.50
Provençale tomatoes served with olive oil breadcrumbs and strips of crispy,
cured free-range Simon*
*Simon (Feb 11th 2023 - Oct 21st 2023) was an eight-month-old pig
from Yorkshire, England. He had a distinctive black patch over his right eye.
Initially inquisitive and playful, Simon became traumatized after seeing his
sickly brother (“the runt,” as he was referred to) bludgeoned to death with a
spade. Simon spent his last day being carted up with hundreds of other young
pigs before being forced into a gas chamber.
MAIN - £24.00
Braised leg of organic, hand-reared Lucy* in red wine jus, served with pan-seared asparagus and glazed sweet potato
*Lucy (June 17th 2023 - Dec 18 2023) was a boisterous young lamb
from Lancashire with one brown eye and one green one. She was often seen in the
fields frolicking with her twin sister. Lucy wasn’t a fussy eater, but was
always especially happy when she encountered a patch of clover to nibble on.
She was dragged from her pen and bolt-gunned in the head a day before turning
six months old. Her other three legs were sold to a high-end supermarket.
DESSERT - £11.50
Cruelty-free egg custard tart* served with organic lemon and ginger confit
*The owner of
the egg is an unnamed chicken (Aug 11th 2022 - present) housed in block 67D of
Gloucester Farms Ltd. She spent the first eighteen weeks in a growing facility
before being moved to the current housing she shares with twenty thousand
others. Her only remaining emotion is pain, but thankfully her laying capacity
is already waning, so she will soon be heading for the abattoir floor.
****
Note that we donate 2% of all profits to the “Happy Paws Charity for Dogs”.
Copyright©2025 by Ben Daggers. All
Rights Reserved.