Pets Stories

It's been a month since I let my golden retriever, Atlas, run wild in the backyard, only to return and frantically search the entire house for a missing cushion that no longer held its usual spot on the living room couch. Amidst his triumphant tail wags and playful yelps, a stray thread from said cushion had become wedged in his mitten-like paw pads, making our evening routine quite the spectacle – I'd scrub it out under warm running water, only for it to somehow sneak right back onto his paw by bedtime, a cycle he seemed to delight in repeating.

My hands are still sticky from the peanut butter incident. It's been weeks since I attempted to train Lola, our hyperactive corgi, to 'shake hands'.

Somehow, I'm starting to notice that my cat has this odd affinity for knocking over my mother's vases - the ones she's collected from her childhood summers in rural Maine - and then staring at me with a comically innocent look on his face as if asking "what could possibly be my business with the delicate art of flower-smashing"?

My cat's obsession with the refrigerator is inexplicable, she sits for hours staring at the humming compressor, I've tried rearranging the kitchen layout to conceal it but she always finds her way back, one time I opened the door thinking she'd been stuck inside, but no, just basking in the cool air, completely unphased

The way my cat's fur smells after a winter nap reminds me of the peculiar scent of my childhood cabin, a mix of damp air and cedar chips. Sometimes, when no one's looking, I catch my cat staring at the spot where our family's old piano once stood, its presence somehow woven into our furniture, a lingering echo of laughter and afternoons lost forever.

I'm pretty sure the dust bunnies under my cat's favorite bed have more life than the actual cat does these days. They scurry faster, for one.