Everyone says I’m a liar and there is no such thing as a Shell-ony, a rare eyeless creature that is part conch shell and part miniature pony. Despite making countless life-like models of this creature, no on believes me. Save for my black and white pug, Oreo, and cockatiel, Pete, I am alone.

It’s wrong, I know it‘s wrong but despair causes me to stop caring. Light bulbs burn out and are not replaced. Jugs of milk, frozen pizzas and other groceries are not bought. The pet food runs out. I let Pete fly about the house so he can forage for food. No longer do I pour water into Oreo’s bowl… The lap, lap, lap of Oreo drinking water from the toilet bowl becomes the soundtrack of my life. Alcohol is now a refuge. Windows are left open in hopes that a robber will enter the house and kill me as I lay passed out on the linoleum floor.

I awake to discover a torn section of window screen. Pete is gone. He must have been kidnapped. Or worse, flown away because of my neglect. Oh Pete, what have I done? He is a small gray bird with a little tuft on his head, he doesn’t have the full crown of feathers on the top of his head like most cockatiels, just a few spikes. An adrenaline rush surges through my body: Pete is in danger.

I print flyers with Pete’s picture on them and useful information about him like he is not very tame but responds to millet and seed. With Oreo by my side I go through the city putting up flyers. The sun bears down. Oreo urges me on with his little pug nose pressed into my ankle, but I grow weary. In the park I think I hear Pete’s unique caw. It leads me to a stand of brush and there I find a lunchbox, and beside it, one of his gray feathers. The lunchbox opens easily. It’s full of crack. There’s a little pipe in it and a lighter. This could be what I need to keep up my strength. I burn a rock. Nothing happens. I feel the same. The only difference is my leg won’t stop twitching and I think I can hear Pete, far away, telling me Oreo is a soccer ball.

Three days later I awake in the West End Motel. Oreo is not around. All I remember is the funny sound he made after I scored the goal by kicking him into the storm sewer. The roar of the crowd sounded like a thousand joyous cockatiels. I make a new flyer, shading the truth slightly: Lost Dog. Oreo. Fell down manhole. Very People Friendly.

I staple the flyers to the phone poles. The beneficent wisdom of the all-knowing Shell-oney would certainly be useful now. But there is no miniature pony with a shell head galloping across the park’s green hills towards me. Only the birds surround me, an army of sparrows, blue jays and mockingbirds who seem ready to obey their leader—a small gray bird with a little tuft on his head.