A/N: Alright, I set out to write a full fledged newsie story and instead I wrote about Mush and parakeets. What can I say? Anyway, here it is. I've got no idea where it came from. Seriously.

"We should get a pet." I say, as I splash cold water onto my face.

It's the first thing I say that morning. We're all washing our faces and shaving and goofing off (well, mostly goofing off) and the words come tumbling right out of my mouth.

"Say what?" Race asks, turning to me in disbelief. I shrug.

"Ain't you ever wanted a pet? Like a cat, or a dog, or a...parakeet or something?" I ask, not knowing where I'm going with this.

"A parakeet?" Skittery says from the other side of me, his voice incredulous.

"Hey everybody!" Shouts Blink. "Mush wants to get a parakeet!"

The morning dissolves into the usual hilarity and ridicule, with my comment long forgotten in the discussion, which veers off into the strange realms of parakeets we've all collectively had (total count: none), and from there to other birds, and from there to everybody's favorite Vaudeville performer, the Swedish meadowlark, because everybody loves talking about Medda.

Parakeets (and other pets, which had been the real point of my comment) are long forgotten by the time we are out the door to collect our days papes. But for some reason they are on my mind all day.

As I hawk my papes through the streets of New York, the cold, gray drizzle dripping off the brim of my hat and down onto the tip of my nose, I think about getting a pet.

I mean, something like a dog. They're supposed to be man's best friend, right? Right. So wouldn't it be kinda fun to have a dog? It could watch out for you while you were selling papes, or stay at the lodging house and greet you when you came back from a hard day of selling. I've heard dogs love you no matter what you do. That'd be kinda nice, if ya ask me.

Or a cat. Cats can fend for themselves -- you don't have to do anything. They catch mice, or rats, or shrews and drink water from wherever. There are plenty of stray cats around the lodging house. It'd be real easy to just get to know one and bring it inside. Give it some milk when you could afford it and suddenly it's your best friend (or so I've heard, but then, I hear a lot).

Pets are still on my mind when I return to the lodging house that night. I sit down on my bunk (it's a lower one), a thoughtful look on my face. Why couldn't we get a pet? There isn't anything in the rules that I've heard to stop us.

"Seriously Blink," I say, turning to him, "why couldn't we get ourselves a dog or somethin'?"

"Why?" Blink asks incredulously, raising an eyebrow at me. "You still thinkin' about dat? Ya serious?"

"Sure." I say. "Why not?"

"Cuz we already keep your for a pet, and if we got a dog, it'd smell better den you and we'd hafta kick ya out!" Race called from the bunk above me, spewing cigar smoke down towards my face. I'm so used to it I don't even flinch. Laughter roars through the lodging house.

"Aw c'mon Race." I say. "Ain't you ever wanted a pet?"

Race pauses for a moment, and though I can't see him I can hear the cogs in his head turning to come up with a new insult. That's why it surprises me when he comes out with something that sounds like it might be genuinely thoughtful -- or at the very least a bit less sarcastic than usual.

"I dunno Mush." He says. "Not really. I always thought it'd be one more thing to worry about. Why bother right? Don't we got enough to do already?"

I shrugged. Race had a point.

"How come ya want one Mush? How come ya want a pet?" Snipeshooter asks from his bunk, only one over from mine. I realize that's a pretty good question -- why would a newsie want a pet? We worry about ourselves and our friends. I don't need a pet for companionship -- we're a tighter knit group than lots of families I've seen. I don't need it to protect me -- I can fight just fine in a pinch, and there's usually another newsie within shouting distance anyway. I don't need it for entertainment -- that's what theater (and pranks) are for. Why in the world do I want a pet?

"I dunno Snipes." I tell him honestly. "I mean, I was just thinkin' about it, and I figured it might be nice, ya know?"

"Nah." Snipes replies, shrugging. "I don't."

People laugh, me included, and we all go back to whatever it was we were doing before (i.e., nothing).

(line)

In the dark if you know it well enough you can see the intricate designs in the wood of the slats above you. They hold up the mattress of the upper bunk, and the swirls and knots in the wood are a godsend to an insomniac newsie. We've all got things that keep us awake sometimes, but this time my problem isn't my usual one.

I don't know why in the world I want a pet.

Even if I got a cat or something, eventually I'd forget to give it milk, or I wouldn't be able to afford it, or it would run off, or I'd get bored. Sounds kinda hardhearted I guess, but really we're all worried about things like eating, and general survival. We don't have time to worry about cats.

Late that night, the stars beginning to fade outside the window and the early predawn light emerging from wherever it hides, I think I get it.

Wouldn't it be nice to have something lower than me?

Something like a pet?

Every day all day we get looked down on. We depend on everybody else - Pulitzer for our papes and our jobs, our customers for our money, Kloppman for a roof over our heads. Sure, we use our street smarts and our fists to stay alive, but if it weren't for other people in some capacity, let's face it -- we'd be dead.

Every newsie likes to think he's completely independent, and every newsie is wrong.

It'd be real nice to have something depend on me for a change. For food and shelter. Just to know I was takin' care of something for a change.

You know, when you lay it out like that, it sounds pretty dopey doesn't it?

So I roll over and go back to sleep. Tomorrow morning, a couple of the boys may bring it up to laugh about (hey fellas, maybe we oughta get Mush a parakeet for his birthday!) and occasionally we may remember it and get a good laugh over it. But I don't really want a pet anymore.

It's really years and years later, when I'm in my early twenties and most of us have moved on to "respectable" jobs, or at least real ones, when most of us have little tiny apartments to call our own that I'll be reminded of all this again. The boys will be over at my house to celebrate my birthday. I don't know when my birthday is, so we all just picked a day. Race suggested April 1st. Hardy har har.

Anyway, I was opening the couple of presents they'd scraped together for me (it was real nice of them actually) and when I'd thrown the wrapping paper off of the last one, someone held up a hand.

"Hang on a sec Mush, just a sec."

So I hang on, wondering what in the world they're going to do. Probably bring in a bucket of cold water and throw it in my face -- that was the "extra present" last birthday.

"Close your eyes!" Forewarns a voice from the doorway, and I obligingly do (well, okay, they're open a little -- would you close your eyes around this bunch?).

I feel something set down on the floor in front of me. I open my eyes and look down to see a dull looking cage. It has a few scratches and dents, but it is undoubtedly a birdcage.

Inside is a scrawny, but breathing, parakeet.

Laughter roars around the room and they all congratulate each other with slaps on the back and extra drinks. I laugh too, remembering that cold winter day when I'd idly inquired about pets.

Joke though it is, I will keep the parakeet.

A/N: Please tell me what you thought. I'm not sure if it's up to the others (well, it's a little more jokey, but I mean the writing). Constructive criticism would be much appreciated.