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Daryl had given up on pets at age six.
They'd had the obligatory coonhounds, with a couple of scruffy cats always hanging around, leaving rodents and birds half-eaten on the porch. They'd even had a scraggly flock of chickens, once, until they stopped laying.
But Daryl had only ever had one real pet, one that was just his, a rabbit that Merle had found, tossed out by someone about a week after Easter. Probably once whoever bought the thing had realized that rabbits eat and shit and bite like any other animal. It had been huddled next to a trash can when Merle spotted it, the slate grey pelt and lop-ears marking it out from the usual brown cottontails.
It had reminded him, in some small way, of his baby brother, ten years younger; they had the same cautious way of moving, starting and looking around at any sudden noise or movement. So he'd picked into up and stuffed it into his jacket pocket, and taken it home to Daryl.
He'd named her Hazel, after a character on a book about rabbits, and begged Merle to help build a hutch. They'd spent most of one afternoon knocking together an old crate and some leftover chicken wire, and Daryl, not quite six, had installed his soft new friend onto a bed of straw.
Hazel, despite Merle's warnings, was not taken by foxes or hawks, and Daryl showed surprising care for a little boy, trekking out every day to look after her, to pet and play and make sure she had grass to nibble and fresh water to drink.
Their old man had taken no notice, although he'd grunted acknowledgment when Daryl had tentatively mentioned his new pet. And so Daryl and Hazel spent the spring making friends, and by June, he was carrying her in a pouch he'd fashioned, taking her fishing and showing her off to the neighbourhood kids.
It was a good summer, Daryl remembered, that first summer after Mama died and they moved into the old rattletrap Daddy had found, more shack than house, but with a handy tacked-on shed for a distillery.
It was a bright October afternoon, Halloween a week away and Daryl had just turned six the week before. He'd started school, and his teacher liked him; she gave him more gold stars for reading than any other kid in the class, saying he was "ahead of the curve", whatever that meant. Daryl guessed something to do with bikes, or the drag races that went on every Friday out past the highway service station.
He didn't like to be away from Hazel for so long though; she must miss him, alone in her hutch while he was learning addition. He hurried home every day after school to pat her and feed her from his lunch bag before going into the house, and that afternoon hadn't seemed any different.
Except that Hazel wasn't in her hutch. She wasn't anywhere Daryl looked, and he looked everywhere. He'd even begged Merle into helping, and by the time Daddy came tromping up to the back door with a sack of game in one hand, they hadn't found her.
It wasn't until dinnertime, when Daddy asked how Daryl was liking his fried rabbit, that Hazel's disappearance was solved.
Daryl immediately tried to spit out the meat he was chewing, almost retching as cold horror washed over him. His daddy smacked him around the head, hard, and told him he was damn well gonna finish his plate, if he knew what was good for him. Rabbits were only good for one thing, according to Will Dixon, and that was for eating. If Daryl wanted to fatten them up first, that was fine by him.
Merle, trying not to let the sympathy show in his eyes, had thumped him on the back and told him not to be a pussy, it was only a rabbit, as Daryl forced himself, with shaking hands and tears streaming, to eat the meat on his plate.
It was later, as he threw up, with Merle telling him he knew Hazel wasn't just a rabbit, patting Daryl's back awkwardly and trying in his coarse Merle way to offer comfort, that Daryl Dixon decided to give up on pets.
"I don't want another rabbit," was all he'd said on the matter, then or after, and he stuck to it. Getting attached to an animal was only another way for someone to reach out and hurt you.
It wasn't until he was living in a prison, after the world ended, that he'd looked on an animal as anything but a source of food. They had rats, naturally, and where there are rats, there will be cats to hunt them. And there were; five of them, actually, skittish and mean.
Except for one. It was completely white, not a speck of colour on it, with big gold-green eyes and a tail that curled down over its back. And it followed Daryl around- it followed everyone around, truth be told, but seemed to like Daryl in particular- meowing and trotting over to wind around his ankles when he emerged into the yard.
He ignored it, until one day, when he was standing guard, it leapt up beside him to nuzzle its head against his cheek. He gave it a grudging pat, and a rusty purr started deep beneath the short white fur. Daryl gave it a half-smile and scratched under the chin, then stroked one large, rough-callused hand over its back. The cat arched up, tail vibrating happily, and Daryl took note of the fact that the cat was male as he continued to pet him, the half-smile giving way to a real one.
Rick had given him a long, steady look, one eyebrow raised, the day he found Daryl up in the guard tower with a cat on his chest, both of them nibbling away at a scavenged packet of beef jerky.
Daryl had simply scratched the cat's ears with a shrug and met Rick's gaze unapologetically. "His name's Vegas. Guess he's decided he's mine."
He looked down into the half-lidded gold-green eyes and smiled. "Or maybe that I'm his. Either way's fine by me."