Owen's life tended to be monotonous, though he tried his best to avoid boredom. Of course, he had a lot of leisure time between the periods where he rung his bells, but he was running out of ways to put it to good use. He had attempted various artistic pursuits, such as painting, carving, and singing, but he lacked the resources for the first two, and the last activity alerted churchgoers to his presence when he was anywhere but the bell tower, which he did not want. Although he had memorized a few combinations of Gregorian chanting based solely on phonetics, he dared not join in when he peered down at the gathering of people in the church. To partake in their activities would imply that he considered himself their equal, which he of course did not. Aside from the fact that Master Zebil incessantly, firmly, and gratuitously reminded him that he was a subhuman worm not fit for civilized society, he had also witnessed a variety of reactions to his shape, none of which were positive in the slightest. Every time someone caught him singing in the abbey or humming a jolly tune as he swept the floors after ringing the evening vespers, they would approach his shadow with curiosity, but screech or faint when they saw him clearly. That was why he didn't tend to make noise anymore, unless ringing the bells counted as noise. Although he wasn't allowed to get creative with his chores, he appreciated the fact that he was able to make music in the first place, even if he might prefer singing to ringing. He was willing to sacrifice his ambitions for a chance to feel like he was making a difference, and ringing the bells was a very important job. It was a task which made him strong and slightly deaf, but it was worth putting up with the tinnitus for one reason and one reason alone: whenever Owen was pulled up by the force large bells exerted on his rope, he would get a stunning view of the city at an angle he seldom saw from his regular viewing area. Any novel perspective was welcome, for he had practically memorized the layout of Paris from a collection of points, and wanted to get a better idea of what he was missing. How was the bakery painted on the side he couldn't see? How many windows did the shop on the corner really have? Who lived in that little cottage with the white horse in front of it? These were banal mysteries, but mysteries all the same, for Owen lived in the center of his world, and Owen's World extended no farther than the horizon.
Although his existence was repetitive and seldom filled with adventure, Owen preferred to look on the bright side of things. Having had virtually no experience in anything related to a normal life, small surprises made a gargantuan difference in whether or not he would have an above-average day. Last week, for example, while he was cleaning the rooftop, he found a stick from a tree that grew those little green berries with red dots on them. The branch he found had no such berries, but he was thrilled all the same. He placed the stick under his bed, at first, but finding that unsatisfactory, pulled it out and placed it on a table so he could look at it every day. The barren branch made a fine centerpiece, and although it was undeniably dead, Owen was sure there was life in it. Sometimes, he thought he might be imagining what it would look like in full bloom, but that was impossible, since Master Zebil told him he was quite stupid. He didn't have a mind capable of conjuring up ovoid leaves or green berries which would undoubtedly taste sweet and smell like heaven. He couldn't bring himself to think about what it must be like to sit under a tree and watch the clouds roll by, casting shadows on an open field with lush grass that would tickle his feet and make the air smell fresh and alive. This, and many other thoughts, he was simply incapable of thinking, because Master Zebil told him so.
Looking in on this situation, one might deduce that Zebil was unkind to Owen. Having lived under the stern gaze of the blue tiger his whole life, Owen knew nothing else, and had memorized a list of excuses for the feline's behavior, in case anyone were to question the morality of his situation. The truth of the matter was, no sane person could ever bring themselves to like a Stegoceratops, and Zebil was undoubtedly perfect, as he had said so many times. Zebil couldn't be wrong about these two facts, of course, because even if Owen interpreted his actions as being cruel or malevolent, this was not sufficient evidence. Owen was a stupid animal, and was thus wrong about everything, so if he ever felt like Zebil was being unfair, it was only because he didn't know any better. All of the floggings and insults were just signs of compassion, he was sure, and if not, he deserved them for being an uneducated, simple-minded, dirty, disgusting, smelly, stupid, worthless, brainless hybrid dinosaur who would never be loved by anyone and most certainly die alone. In Zebil's opinion, anyway.
There were times when Owen wondered if he might be capable of becoming something greater than an animal, or at least strive to make himself not-as-terrible as the monster he was, and once he got over the initial guilt of these impure thoughts, he would occasionally allow himself to dream- for the briefest moment- of what his life might be like if he were anything other than a Stegoceratops. Had he been born a bird, he could fly over the roofs he knew so well, singing at the top of his lungs without fear of being noticed. As a bull, he could graze in the fields all day, and no one would glare at him in disgust, because cows have low standards of beauty, and will take what they can get. But the dream he yearned for more than anything in the world, as sinful and unnatural as it was, was to be human. Men were unlike any animal living or dead, for they could accomplish great things- with the risk of utter failure, yes- but to have such an opportunity in the first place was reserved for this noble species alone. What must it be like to live with members of one's own kind, to walk down the street and see figures who looked exactly like them? How would it feel to greet a person and not be shunned immediately, to have a chance to earn their respect, or even something as simple as a smile? How wonderful would it be to know that no matter how awful you feel, you'll never truly be alone, for all you have to do is take a step outside to see that there are others who share the billion aches and pains that you experience every day, and who are willing to help you through troubled times, because you're just like them, accepted for the sole reason that you're human, and therefore automatically worth their time. For life- human life- has value. When a person is born, they are not put to death immediately for their lack of accomplishments. The simple act of being Homo sapiens gives a person valor that cannot be attained by any simple beast, no matter how hard they try. Even criminals and vagabonds are blessed with that holy label that separates them from the animals, and a good human will never be slaughtered or whipped without cause. Only livestock meet that fate, because they exist to serve man. It was the way of the world: the system that kept everything in order. Or so the story goes. It wasn't really up for debate, anyway.
So perhaps if he had been born as something else, Owen would be worth something, even if that "something" was no greater than fleece or milk or meat. He sometimes wondered why he had been unfortunate enough to be stuck as a Stegoceratops . . . or if it wasn't a matter of luck, then what exactly had he done to deserve this body? As far as he could tell, his only crime was existing, and that was hardly his fault. Was it possible that the world simply wasn't fair, and never would be? Well, perhaps it could become fairer in time, but only for humans. A man could work for a better life, but a dinosaur was destined to be shunned for all eternity, no matter how much he tried to change his fate. That being said, if there was even the slightest chance that he could live a better life, Owen would devote his existence to pursuing that goal . . . but wishing for that opportunity was a crime against nature, of course. He ought to be happy in his current state, though he had been born as the worst thing imaginable.
Owen's life was pretty dismal, obviously, but at the very least, he had friends who shared his opinions. Perhaps they were a bad influence on him (at least by Master Zebil's standards), but he enjoyed the guilty pleasure of listening to their outlandish ideas. Of course, he took their advice with a grain of salt, since they were about as ugly as he was, and made of stone besides. As he gazed down at the streets of Paris one morning, they hopped up to him with wide smiles.
"Good morning, Owen!"
"Good morning, Vic. Good morning, Zara."
The larger of the two grinned and fluttered her wings.
"Don't you just love the smell of bread in the morning? Oh, of course you do: you're a dinosaur. You could pick up the scent of a loaf from miles away. I can tell the baker's working on a big load of toast at the moment . . ."
"Is that what that is?" Owen asked sullenly, "I'm not sure I even know what fresh bread smells like, let alone toast. I've only tasted it once, and I'm not confident I remember it all that well."
"I do," Vic stated proudly, "I don't care if I make a poor living: when I retire, I'll bake all day long."
"Gosh, I'd love to join you," Zara gushed, "It sounds like a nice, stable life, and you'll never have to worry about depending on someone for food."
Owen shot them a sassy smile.
"Don't go running off, you two. The cathedral needs you to scare away the birds . . . or whatever it is you do. Besides, I'd miss you if you left me."
They wrapped him in a tight embrace.
"Oh, we wouldn't do that," Zara assured him, "We're your forever-friends."
"Totally," Vic agreed, "And we're never, ever, ever going away."
Owen smiled sadly.
"Thanks, guys. You always know what to say to cheer me up. Still, I'm sure it's miserable living with an ugly fellow like me."
"Not at all," Zara asserted, "You may be ugly, but you're twice as handsome as us, and you have a stellar frill."
Owen laughed.
"Don't flatter me. I might start to believe you."
"So, why don't you?" Zara asked, "Surely, you don't think we're stupid . . ."
"Not stupid: just wrong. I don't have a stellar anything, nevermind a stellar frill."
"You don't like your own frill?" Vic pouted.
Owen ran his front foot over it hesitantly.
"Well, I wish I could say I like it, but then I'd be wrong, too. Nothing is good about being a dinosaur, just like Master Zebil says."
"And you think a tiger knows what he's talking about?" Zara sassed.
Owen sighed and draped his head over the edge of the cathedral miserably.
"Of course he does. Despite the abuse he puts me through, he's still the closest thing I have to family. Nobody else would have taken on the burden of raising a monster like me. A feline blessed with such patience and dedication must be right about some things."
Zara crossed her wings.
"Owen, do you honestly believe that he has your best interest in mind? Furthermore, just because he did one nice thing for you does not give him the right to tell you that you're a monster, and it certainly doesn't make him some all-knowing genius who understands the way the world works."
Owen gave a sad rumble.
"He's right about one thing: nobody wants to be friends with a Stegoceratops."
He caught himself.
"Other than you guys, of course."
Vic patted him on the shoulder.
"Don't feel bad, Owen. You're a nice guy. I'm sure people would like you if they only got to know you."
Owen's face brightened.
"You know, you may be right. What if I could find a way to socialize without being seen?"
Zara gave an excited chirp and yanked a tattered blanket off of Owen's hay-pile.
"You could use a disguise! They'll never know you're a dinosaur if you don't show your face!"
Owen's tail started wagging spiritedly.
"Exactly! And once I impress them with my wit and charm-"
"-they can be your forever-friends, too!" Vic finished, bouncing merrily.
Owen draped the blanket over his shoulders, but paused fearfully. His eyes turned to the ground as he ruminated on the logistics of his plan. The last scraps of hope came trickling out of his irises like invisible tears. His gargoyle friends shared a worried look, then leaned in close.
"What's the matter, Owen?" Vic asked, "Don't you like our plan?"
He took a deep breath.
"You're both forgetting that I can't impress anyone with my wit and charm, because I don't have any."
Zara clicked her beak.
"Did Zebil tell you that, too?"
Owen didn't reply. Vic took a couple of hops towards him and lifted his chin.
"Hey, don't worry about all that. As long as you're kind and gentle, no one will think you're a monster."
Owen sighed and gazed at his tail.
"But what kind of a person would be able to look past all this?"
"A good person," they replied at once.
Owen took a deep breath.
"No human is that forgiving. It doesn't matter how hard I try: I'll never fit in. Still, I wonder if I'm truly meant to stay here forever, or if maybe I could have a chance . . . just one chance . . ."
And he proceeded to sing Out There, which will not be parodied in this story, because there are some things you just don't mess with.