CEO by Billy Middleton

Listen to Billy Middleton read 'CEO.'

I adopted a corporate CEO from the local shelter. He was let out on the street after his company folded, was picked up rooting through dumpsters, running through busy intersections. The volunteer at the shelter told me he was unfriendly, often nipped at the hands of strangers, but he responded kindly to me, sniffing my extended palm as I approached his cage. He was a fine looking CEO, with slicked back gray hair and a navy Armani suit.
    After filling out the paperwork, the volunteer told me that the CEO's name was Sternberg. I led Sternberg out to my car and brought him home. For many months he and I were happy. I built a house for him in the backyard, provided him with Frisbees and rubber balls and scratched him behind the ears. He loved nothing more than to lie beneath the pecan tree and sun his belly while I was at work. Sometimes when I got home I would find that he had left me presents on the doorstep: dead birds or small rodents. Then we would play fetch and take a long walk.
    But with other people Sternberg had a mean streak. The neighborhood children would come to the fence and look over into my back yard. They would throw sticks at him, cluck their tongues at him or snap their fingers. In response, Sternberg would charge the fence, yelling, "I was once the backbone of this community! I employed your fathers!" He would grab at the collars of their school uniforms, would shake his fist savagely at them.
    They told their parents, and the issue was brought before the Neighborhood Committee, who decided that Sternberg had become too much of a danger. What if he got hold of one of the children? What if he shook them violently? Is he up to date on his vaccinations? They told me I had to get rid of him. I tried to explain the situation to him, but he would look at me with his milky green eyes and my voice would crack, trail off.
    I considered many options. Returning him to the shelter was right out of the question; at his age, the chances of him getting adopted within the thirty-day window were slim. Nor could I put an ad in the classifieds, as he had grown too attached to me, and to form such a bond with someone else would be impossible. The only option was to release him into the wild.
    My nine brothers and I grew up on a farm at the edge of town. Eight of my brothers still remain there, sharing the property. The other wrote a scathing memoir of our childhood and is disowned. But the eight who are not disowned promised me that Sternberg would have a grand time frolicking in the woods surrounding the farm. They would leave bowls of food and water out for him, and perhaps in time they would befriend him. I was always free to visit, they said.
    I drove him out there, still unable to bring myself to tell him where we were going. He had no idea. We reached the farm and my eight brothers came out, greeted me with a round of pats on the back, assurances that this was for the best. "A CEO is too high maintenance," my brother, T.S., said. "You should get a parrot, maybe a leopard gecko." The other seven agreed. They watched from the front porch as I led Sternberg to the tree line. "Go on," I said. He stood at the edge of the woods looking at me for a long time, and then he disappeared between the trees.
    I have not gone back to the farm to visit. It is too painful a prospect, the fear that our love won't be the same, that he won't want to play fetch anymore, that he might have become feral and dangerous. But perhaps I should go. I know he's still out there, and I know he's thinking of me too. Sometimes I receive packages in the mail, plain brown boxes, and though there is no return address, I know who they're from when I look inside and find dead birds and small wilderness rodents.

About the author:
Billy Middleton is a PhD candidate at the University of Southern Mississippi's Center for Writers. His work has previously appeared in Vestal Review, Kennesaw Review, and in other publications.