Pet

I have a pet rock. It has been my friend since I was five. I tell my pet rock everything. It is a patient listener.

Yesterday my pet rock started talking. At first I listened because I figured it was the kind thing to do. But after a few minutes, I was distracted by all the things I wanted to say.

I tried interrupting my pet rock, but it kept talking. I thought my pet rock was being rude. Didn’t it realize that I wasn’t listening anymore?

Finally I had it and threw my pet rock out the window into the yard. What a relief!

But then I felt all the things I wanted to say well up, and there was no one to hear them.

I ran downstairs and outside. I went looking for my pet rock. I called out, “Pet rock, where are you?”

I spent hours in my search, but it was not to be.

I went in and laid on my bed and cried. I thought that it’s time I grew up and learned to process my own feelings.

I heard a sound from the yard. I got up and looked out my window. I saw a raccoon holding my pet rock. The raccoon said, “I’m thinking of going to raid the Ogilvie’s trash cans tonight. The last time they had cream cheese!”