A loud banging on the wooden door woke me up. I crawled around, trying to get past the many other caterpillars without awakening them. I peeked through the crack in the wall. Thousands of CS users rammed against the door, screaming in various languages “It’s July 1st! Why can’t we adopt the butterfly wolves yet?” A new person walked into the crowd. People quieted down and made a path so she could get by. The person held a keychain. She flicked out a key that looked like a butterfly wolf. She shoved the key into the lock, and took a miniature trumpet out of her jeans pocket. She threw open the doors, pointing the trumpet towards the sleeping caterpillars. She blew on it, producing an unearthly and hideous noise. All the caterpillars awoke, confused. She motioned for us to come to her. Seeing this person as a figure of authority, because of all the people parting for her and being silent in her presence, the caterpillars bolted for the door. I slipped out the crack in the wood, not wanting to be overrun by a stampede of caterpillars. A teenaged girl took me into her arms.
“You’re a gorgeous little girl,” she cooed, cradling me, “Yes you are! Yes you are!” She tickled my underside, making me giggle. “You like that, don’t you? Yes you do!” She gently deposited me into a blanketed basket with some other caterpillars from my litter. I was in the basket for a long while, having small talk with the other caterpillars, while my new owner walked all over the place.
Eventually, she put our basket onto the ground. She opened up the flaps, and a dim light came in. I saw what I now know as a parlor. A plush rug that went up to my stomach covered the floor. A quaint chair with brass buttons and purple velvet sat under a reading lamp. A short bookshelf sat next to the chair, filled with books with torn covers and yellowed pages. A chandelier with real, flaming candles hung above a short wooden coffee table. The coffee table had pretty crocheted coasters and a steaming cup of tea. The whole place looked like the inside of an antique shop. The teenager picked the basket up again, carrying us up a flight of marble stairs. An intricate metal railing went up the side of the spiraling staircase. We arrived in a corridor, each door having a plaque saying something like “Rare Trading”, “Not for Trade”, “Dogs/Wolves”, and “Rats”. We were carried into a room with a door labeled “Rarity Unknown B-Wolves”. “Okay, you guys,” she softly told us, “This is your room. You will live here and do whatever you want in here until I want to trade you or move you into a new group.” She let us crawl out of the basket. “Now, I’ll give you your names. Yours,” she said, pointing at me, “is Rosalie.” She gave the others names, then picked up the basket and left the room. I looked around. This room was a replica of a meadow. Grasses grew in patches, and wildflowers were scattered all around. A potted tree and other potted plants were all over. Some cradles had been tied to the branches of the potted tree. I sighed. Living here would be so much fun!
I was in my cradle on morning a week later, and had the strangest feeling. My instinct told me: “Time to evolve.” You can guess I was excited! I crawled up onto the branch, and began to make a cocoon around myself. I fell into a deep sleep, so my body could break down and I could emerge a gorgeous butterfly wolf!
Another week later, I awoke from my deep sleep. I had wings! Big pink ones! Also, there were stripes on my tail! I was a wolf now! No more caterpillar! I tried to emerge, but found I couldn’t. I was in there for the longest time, then my owner finally came in for her daily check-up. She looked at me. Shock and joy overtook her face. “Oh, Rosalie!” She squealed. “You’re one of those special PPS outcomes! The other people say that your outcome is really rare!” She hurriedly plucked my cocoon off the branch, and took me out into the corridor. She put me into an “Auction” room. She put me inside a little glass room, near a window. People walking by outside ogled me. I was rare! This excited me. I used to be little goody-two-shoes, the shy one, the introvert. But now, somebody cared! Forget that I still had no rarity, forget that people only cared for my demand, somebody cared!
The very next day, the teenage girl came back. “Rosalie! You have gotten so many trade offers! You’re being traded away to this boy who offered a Very Rare advent list dog for you.” I had no idea what she meant by that, but before I could ask, she took me out of my display case and back into that basket. Before I knew it, I was at another person’s house in an “Auction” room. Then another. Another, another, another, and another. I began to feel troubled. Did nobody care for me? Did they just care about my worth?
My question was answered when August came around. I had finally gotten my rarity! I was an uncommon. My current owner, a boy of about 14, checked on me to see if I had gotten any trade offers. He glowered when he saw my rarity tag. “UNCOMMON?” He shrieked, “I PAID A GOOD SEPTEMBER LIST FOR YOU!” He finally settled down, still seething. “Worthless piece of garbage,” he muttered. He snatched me by the middle of my cocoon, opened the window, and, in a rage, tossed me onto the street. I was in the basement, so I only fell an inch or two. Tears filled my eyes as I watched him curse and slam the window shut. The tears rolled down my fur, dampening it. I sobbed softly.
In a few days, a young girl-who couldn’t be older than ten-picked me up. A lock of dark brown, waist-length hair fell across her olive skin, covering her brown eyes. “Rosalie...” she muttered reading my name tag. “Pitiful creature! Come on, you can live at my place,” she said.
“O-okay,” I stammered.
She carried me to her home, which was gorgeous. She had a house that looked like an antique store as well (much like my first owner’s, I might add) with a bursting bookshelf, yoga mat, and cookbooks in a neat stack on the radiator. She carried me up a floor, putting me into a room labeled “Natural Beauties”. Here were books, a flower garden, a potted tree, a small pond, and a tiny fireplace.
Over the past three months, I have gotten to know my owner. Her name is Gina. She loves yoga, cooking, books, and the occasional playful fistfight with friends. Unlike previous owners, she takes the time to talk to her pets and teach them yoga.
But still, I wonder: Would my other owners care about me, had I not had high demand? Would I end up in the pound? On the streets? Would I be that unwanted pet in someone’s adoption center? Either way, PPS Book Club is in a few minutes and I need to get to the parlor room fast.