The Mosquitofishers

When Google was little, when he was still called Barnes, I thought he was annoying, but that seemed to be normal for little brothers. I noticed something worse about him one day when I was volunteering at the shelter. Dad was sitting in the lobby with Barnes, waiting for me to finish a summer camp class. We were working with the kittens in the lobby display cages. Barnes ran to the kittens, wiggled a toy at them, and ran back to Dad, telling him what the kittens had done. He then zoomed back to the kittens. He was so excited.

A school group of kids his age came into the lobby. They looked around, then all focused on Barnes. His pants were too big and had fallen partly down, but he didn't notice as they stared at his crack and giggled. His flip-flops made loud slaps as he ran wildly back and forth. The kids seemed to suddenly pack up, standing a bit closer together, as if he was a weird animal. All their focus narrowed on him, not even looking at the kittens and the dogs being walked through the lobby.

I saw him through their eyes. He wasn't my familiar brother, he was a wacky kid, deserving punishment for his obliviousness. He was no longer one of us humans.

Dad didn’t notice, he was smiling calmly at Barnes, and probably glad he would be worn out and sleepy on the way home.

I wanted to yell at the kids, “Just put him on a computer and he’ll KICK YOUR BUTTS!” I also pretended not to notice him as I finished my project.

I don't think the kids would have done anything to Barnes even if their teacher hadn't been waiting with them, maybe they would have pointed and laughed. But it only took those few seconds for me to see why Barnes couldn't be in school. They were pack predators and he didn’t have the right pack instinct to join them. He'd have to be prey instead, the only alternative. Fair game.