UENO ZOO

Does the rat like the sound of rain?

Can the alleycat dance like this, dance like this?

Would the skink care for another Moscow Mule, perhaps?

Does the meerkat indeed have a sizeable stake in the nation's oil industry and, therefore, a major role in an ongoing and dangerous proxy war which, after years of lying more or less dormant, is suddenly growing in size and intensity?

Would the spider at the centre of the web in Ling Ling the Giant Panda's enclosure promise to distribute her substantial enamelled vase collection equally among her many, many children, the premier item of which is an eighteenth-century vase with a poem by a prominent Qing-era poet
down one side?

Could the fig wasp drive a drug-dealer-black Maserati?

Would the sand beetle swim if she could? Accept, at minimum, installation in a Vanguard-class submarine? Why else does she stop what she is doing to watch the waves crash?

And the bat, will it know how to handle itself if his meeting at the Bank for International Settlements goes sideways?

Did the earthworm pay for actual sex?

Should the rhesus monkey beat his wife when she slights him or disobeys? That look she sometimes gives him, my goodness… and here, of all places, it's embarrassing. But there was that one time we were all together—friends, dogs, drinks. A bonfire. We didn't need anything. And sure,
we'd had maybe a few too many bourbons, things got wild, a little racy. But whatever happened to fun? He ruined everything; he has to know where the line is.

Does the lady beetle have a favourite leaf?

Could you tolerate a jackal without empathy, totally incapable of showing compassion, obnoxiously uncaring, and which, when there is work to be done, lazes around in the shade, making long days feel longer?

Can the rattlesnake, who likes to stay in roadside motels and drink at the nearest and cheapest bars till closing, remember where he has to be today?

Should the bald eagle, Claudia, from a family of hypochondriacs, have just one more penguin chick for brunch?

Does the lion think about what is behind the waterfall?

Could the butterfly, who is in love with the sun, be any more beautiful?

Could the space dog, after exiting and re-entering the Earth's atmosphere, still be bothered to play catch with you?

Does the elephant know when a thunderstorm is coming?

Could the crocodile imagine flight, imagine cruising at altitude, above the clouds, chasing a blood-red sunset, lightning in the distance?

Could the crocodile, who is in constant and methodical pursuit of perfection, really, truly love the butterfly?

Should the crab know Prufrock, at least by now, by heart?

Will the horse, with his friends, talk property, business and politics in poor imitation of his father?

Does the Berkshire pig, sunburnt and heavily tattooed, want to roll onto its back, like in the old days, stretch out a little and think of absolutely nothing?

And, could the jellyfish play the sharemarket? Drag itself through the corridors of the stock exchange, leaving the floor slippery and wet to the touch, as if a janitor has dragged a damp mopped behind him and failed to dry it or put a Slippery When Wet sign up?

How wise is the gorilla, truly, if indeed he, with dirty feet and dirty hands, like a fallen angel, sings to the sky in his strange and alien voice, eyes hooded, as if blind or in a trance, each time he sees a plane flying overhead?

Will the giraffe ride in the passenger side with a leg on the dash and a leg out the window?

Would the zebra finch recognise the devil if they ever crossed paths? Or if not the devil, then a living organism from a faraway galaxy, a space bug with no memory and no voice?

Could the balcony spiders sit in a ring and braid each other’s hair?

And would the morning bird please—please—quieten down so I can get some sleep, on a Sunday if no other day, after we have been up late partying, and if there is one thing we are good at, it is having parties, beginning late in the afternoon and not ending till God knows when? This is how it was, anyway, before. I think now, where has the time gone? And it has gone! In a flash, in an instant. I think way back, to when I met my wife, before we were married. I picked her up and drove her to the National Park, windows down, for a picnic on the clifftops, high above the ocean, those days just breathtakingly sweet, a sort of heaven.

Does the eel think of Dostoevsky?

Does the starfish pay the gambling debts it owes?

Can the cats in the alleyway dance like this?

Would the sloth recognise the wicked chatter of the man in the rainforest below?

Does the louse sleep poorly, bad dreams polluting her nighttime, and is she tired the next day and, if so, what does this mean for louse productivity, less activity in the day, or more sleep the following
night? Does it mean an early death?

By Tristan Foster

Tristan is a writer from Sydney, Australia. His short story collection Letter to the Author of the Letter to the Father was published by Transmission Press. His next book, 926 Years, co-authored with Kyle Coma-Thompson, was published earlier this year by Sublunary Editions.