Boris is a runaway.
Chained since he was a cub in the circus long ago, he was poked and jeered, as people paid and cheered to see him “dance”.
Sad and alone, in a cage that was too small, he imagined a life of freedom, a safe place to get away from it all.
One stormy night, whilst his keeper slept deep, Boris loosed the chains from his battered old feet.
Running at night, hiding by day, he even managed to stowaway.
For weeks he sailed the high seas, eating scraps thrown near where he lay.
Finally, the boat docked at a far southern bay, and slowly, but surely, to me he found his way.
Boris is now happy and free, and as I write, I can hear him humming softly as he enjoys a strong cup of tea.