How did I end up here? I don’t know, but I spot a block of cheese. It’s not necessarily a block, but it’s more of a shaving. The room I’m in is an odd shade of pink, like the flesh of a fileted salmon I see at the market. The people at the market don’t like me much, judging by the way they stomp and retreat and gasp at the sight of me. The room has a lady in it, short and stubby, with greying hair and a navy blue apron dotted with polka dots wrapped around her waist.
I’m a bit worried, but hunger overpowers my fear of being crushed to death. I skitter around carefully, like a penny rolling around without ever seeming to drop. My mouth is shut; I can’t let out a squeak or else what happened to Mr. Jingles will happen to me. Can I smell it? Of course I can. My nose twitches at the fruitiness of the blueberry combined with the sharpness of the blue cheese.
My eyes flutter shut at the delicious aroma, but like an idiot I bump into her shoe. Like a mouse, I scram and panic around the floor but I don’t make it in time. There’s a big hand looming over me, and it feels as though I am David battling against the Philistine warrior Goliath. Rather than being crushed to death, hands dusted with flour gently pick me up. My little face peeks out from the spaces between her fingers, and I see her.
When she smiled, the skin around her eyes gathered, and the smile lines etched into her face reminded me of old parchment. I haven’t seen a smile as beautiful as that meant for me in forever. Her wrinkled fingers brush back the short fur on my head and she coos in words I can’t understand. It’s a pleasant feeling, and I find myself leaning into her touch without fear or hesitation.
Of all the things I can understand, the only sentence that makes sense to me is how she repeated the words, “Matapang, ang tapang mo [brave, you’re so brave].” What does that mean? I think it’s Filipino, like everyone here. Nevertheless, I like the way it sounds on her tongue. My favorite thing that she’s ever said was a name, it took a bit of time for her to think about it, but it came so easily and so simply: Lyon. Lyon, like a lion? I’m not sure, but I like being more than just vermin.
I am still a cheese rat, one riddled in filth, without an inch of decorum or a sliver of civility. But with caring hands and a voice as soft as fleece taking care of me? Maybe I could be more than just a cheese rat. Maybe I have a name now. Maybe my name is Lyon.
