Tickled Whiskers
by Kevin Lottes
Dewey comes home from work and discovers Tuesday, his cat, all coiled up and sound asleep on his futon. He loosens his necktie, shuts the door behind him, and tosses his car keys on the dinner table. The crash of metal to wood awakens her. She slowly rises on all fours, stretches out her paws, and measures his mood.
It’s Friday night. Treat night—milk instead of the usual tap water. Two empty bowls wait on the floor for the ensuing routine:
In the kitchen, Dewey opens the squeaky utensil drawer, scrambles for the buried can opener, finds it, and then clamps it to a can of tuna. He cranks the handle; the cogwheels turn, biting down on the lid, slicing it. The cut arrives full circle, the lid snapping off. He opens the fridge—the hum of an interior light illuminates its insides. He pulls the milk jug out, unscrews its blue cap, and throws it on the countertop.
In the living room, Tuesday sits and licks her lips, calculating each sound into a sum of sounds that equal a treat for her.
Dewey pours the 2% into one bowl, dumps the tuna in the other, and then collapses to a warm spot on his futon leftover from Tuesday’s broken nap. He grabs the T.V. remote and proceeds to click through a meaningless array of channels.
Nothing’s on worth watching, but his eyes remain on the pulsating pixels as if something new will appear. His numb thumb, the most zombie-like appendage of his anatomy, hugs the button, squeezing it each time he loses interest. The channels flicker on the screen like a light bulb about to go out.
“You know, Tuesy, I didn’t think about you at all today. Not one time. Isn’t that something?”
The sound of Dewey’s voice stops her. She turns her head. She looks at him. He looks at her. Their eyes collide. She stares at him as if she’s the one waiting for something new to appear. But, Dewey’s eyes—just two blue channels where nothing is on. She’d rather ignore him than privilege him with an acknowledged meow.
She returns to her Friday night treat. The milk is sour. And she knows it’s sour. A revelation tickles her whiskers: Sometimes the sound of something coming is better than its actual arrival.
“You see there”, Dewey gripes. “Disrespect—that’s all I ever get from you. I try to talk to you. And you just ignore me. Next Friday I’ll just leave the milk in the fridge. That’ll teach ya.”
She glares at him with sarcastic yellow eyes and continues to drink her expired treat, whipping at it with her tiny tongue.