i want to tell you a story

banjo was born brave. the oldest (by seconds) of 5 sisters she was first in the world by chance and ever after by choice and what she would describe as an “innate sense of responsibility”. she took her role quite seriously often times to the mild annoyance of her two closest sisters, bird and bean, who thought themselves more than equipped to handle what the world had in store.

but banjo wouldn’t budge.

she knew, like a doting mother, a protective father or a wild but mindful aunt, that her most important job was the safe keeping of her sisters. whenever the lady let them out of their cage to explore the room with the big shelves and the light bright window, banjo insisted on being first. she’d walk forward, front paw up, nose high, whiskers all a tizzy until she’d properly explored that patch of space and indicated with a playful but affirming thumbs up that the coast was clear.

to bird and bean these little rituals seemed more for banjo than themselves. they’d seen this room dozens of times and knew first hand the only real danger in store was being last to the lady’s lap when it was time for a cucumber treat. but they let her carry on understanding how much it meant and recognizing it cost them nothing to pretend.

in fact the only time when banjo forgot her self entirely was when the lady wore the yellow scarf with the hanging string bits. she’d fall backwards into the lady’s lap feeling only joy and trust and the gentle touch of the yellow scarf that reminded her of sunshine.