Secret pet.

It might look cute, a little ball, not furry, not fluffy - more scaly and spiky.
It's hard to touch - impossible to swallow - thankfully somehow.
It might sound strong, a great big shout - or a shriek, even a screech. A strangled throat.
It smells of sweat, of trembling lunchtime, acrid, unhealthy, ungratefully unbeatable.
It tastes bitter, inedible, and that's lucky: you shouldn't eat your own pet, even in my country.
It never answers to its name, always tries to camouflage. It looks like anger, sadness, maybe depression.

But it's just fear.

Nine lives.

Cat life one, the pyromaniac, half cute fluffy ball, half evil dragon
After that, a prisoner's life, karma kicked in, justice followed
The third life was about repairs: they called her Sam, the firewoman.
Cat life four, the eternal teenager, sleeping all day, drinking all night
After that came a life of repentance - in a monastery, quietly praying
The sixth life was about balance, but mummy cat never found it.
Cat life seven, under the spotlight: fame, money, success; public face
After that, the earth was calling, its mice and rabbits now trembling
The ninth life has just begun. It's the best yet - the possibility of freedom.