My pet. My little iPet, as I like to think of him. As I mentioned yesterday, I like to think of going for walks as a giantess. Things are different with a shrunken man, and I’m normal sized. One of those arbitrary notions that permeates my fantasies (such as that one about interaction being possible between a mega giantess and a man) is that a tiny man lives in constant danger of dying because of his insignificant size. That is the foundation on which fabulous thoughts regarding my protection and his cunning displays of intellect in the face of adversity come to be.
A little guy that only measures a couple of inches in height can’t possibly go out for a walk on his own without running the risk of getting lost in a forest of grass, or eaten by a bird that sees him as a luscious worm. He’s so bitty a cricket can box his ears, and and a praying mantis can rip his head from his shoulders. Ants could kill him and carry his body off to their hill, if they don’t choose to devour him on the spot and leave his skeleton for me to find. Oh joy.
So he arms himself. A lighter becomes a flame-thrower, bits of metal are trimmed into sword and knife shapes, my gun’s cartridges are raided for gunpowder, matches are lugged to serve as torches, and if that was not enough, he cuts sections off my fishnets to trap enemy bugs for torture and interrogation, rides a trained mouse as a cavalry of one that charges fearlessly against all toe-level foes that come between he and the cookie jar in the kitchen… and no matter how many times I caution him, ask him to call me if he wants to leave the dollhouse for a walk, he loves to plot his manly raids (usually with his equally courageous shrunken friends) perhaps as much as he likes the feeling of my giant fingers wrapped around his body.
No, I doubt that.
I love to imagine he walks with me sometimes, or rides a little toy car next to my feet to keep up. On days I’m not thinking of birds or cats, we walk that way, and talk of things we love, and I can hear him clearly even though his mouth is hundreds of relative feet away from mine.
Other times he rides my big toe, and I always give him a little prize if he can last longer than eight seconds on it. But I never put a leash on him… well, almost never. The idea of a man as a pet has its appeal on days I feel the mood for that, and I like the image enough to collage about it. I can’t imagine anything that says YOU ARE MINE AND I’M IN CHARGE OF YOUR LIFE more than a leash, and an inscribed little silver name tag hanging from his neck.