WIFEY’S HYENA
My hyena is a glossy brindle brown and
black with the slanted shoulders and accompanying awkward gait of her kind.
Bat-like ears jut from her bony head above black, shining eyes. Sometimes her
tongue lolls from her mouth after a good meal. And also, I think, when
privately amused.
She is the
queen of my backyard. Nothing is too good for her. I keep her quarters
spotlessly neat, feed her only the freshest kill and bathe her often. My
husband lives in mortal fear of her, though she all but ignores him. She guards
my children with her life and loves them without reserve, a love that is
returned in full.
Sometimes we
take her on walks. Not often. She makes the neighbors uneasy. The high-pitched
laughter unnerves them. Annoys them, even, especially late at night. They don’t realize the true treasure Hanna
is. Instead we play tag with her in the backyard, or chase a ball, or pretend
to hunt. But only the children and I. Never my husband. He says Hanna looks at
him. He says she looks hungry. I would argue the point but I can’t.
After all, she
ate my mother-in-law.