Pets
(a one-shot)
by Riley Berg
I unlock my front door and take a deep breath in the stillness that greets me. A black cat disobediently lounges on the dining room table, warming in the sun. She does not bother moving but graces me with momentary eye contact.
"I love you, too, Natasha."
She goes back to ignoring me.
Scratching against the other side of the painted steel garage door informs me that the dogs know I am here.
"I'm home!"
A chorus of happy barking greets me as I close the garage door behind me. I shake my head in fond exasperation as several tongues lick my hand.
"Down, boys."
Spaced along the garage wall are five food bowls. I fill the first four with large-breed dog food, petting each dog as they scramble to their bowls. Captain, my yellow Labrador. Banner, my Pitbull—you have to be careful around him, he was rescued from an abusive owner. Clint, my chocolate Labrador. And Thor, my Golden Retriever.
The fifth bowl I fill with special food for my fifth dog, a two-legged, black Pomeranian, with a cute little wheeled contraption that serves to replace his back two legs. We usually call him Iron Dog.
With the dogs happily eating, I reenter the house. Natasha the black cat has disappeared. She is awaiting her own dinner, I know.
Sure enough, when I make my way to the bathroom where her food dish is, she lies patiently on the bath rug, licking a paw as if food is the last thing on her mind. I oblige her silent request and open a can of cat food, pushing it out of the can and into her dish with an old plastic picnic knife.
Now, for the difficult part.
Loki rarely lets me open his cage door without trying to escape.
Or maybe he'll escape before I even get home.
I stare at the empty cage, sighing. I don't mind letting him out when I can keep a watchful eye on him, but if ferrets are notorious for mischief, my little Loki is the king of ferrets.
"Natasha! The ferret escaped again!"
A cat's moment later, the sleek black figure pads softly out of the bathroom, looking at me as if bored. Reluctantly, she turns down the hall, hopefully looking for Loki.
Carefully scanning my surroundings as I go—but not catching Loki—I return to the garage. Holding Banner and Clint at bay, I allow Captain and Thor through the door and into the main house. Once assured that the Pitbull and Chocolate Lab will obediently remain, I release them to lift Iron Dog up the step into the house. Shutting the two dogs in the garage—they can come out when we've found Loki; they don't like him for some reason—I join the search.
Between the cat and three dogs, the ferret should be found soon enough.
Or not.
Half an hour later, I have checked the house twice and his cage five times. No sign of that little mischief-maker.
With a sigh, I relent. We'll find him later. We always do.
Opening the garage door to let in the remaining two (whining) dogs, I venture to my bedroom for a moment of rest.
I stare at my pillow. Then look accusingly at my door. It was closed! How did—?
I sigh, accepting the impossible. Ferrets are like that.
How impossible? you ask.
Impossible enough to get through a closed door and curl up on his master's pillow.
I can't bring myself to be mad at him. He looks so cute, a ball of fluffy fur sleeping peacefully on my pillow, his mostly black fur contrasting with the white of my pillowcase.
With a sigh, I shut the door and walk back to the living room.
Loki can sleep a while longer.