Written for the October fiction project at Cafe Writing: “Let some things remain mysterious.”
“There are footprints in the bird seed,” I announced at breakfast one morning.
“Of course there are, dear. The birds stand in it while they’re pecking up the seeds,” came my husband’s dry tones.
“No,” I said, “not bird prints. Mammal prints. Or maybe a lizard. Something with paws. Or at least proper feet.”
“Birds don’t have proper feet?” His voice had that bemused tone that never fails to exasperate me. The one he uses when he’s baiting me, and I know he’s baiting me, and I rise to it anyway.
“You. Know. What. I. Mean.” I bit out each word and spit it at him.
“Maybe it’s a possum,” he said, after I’d glared at him for several seconds.
“Maybe,” I agreed. I went outside, and shook the pan of birdseeds, resolving to invest in a proper tray feeder with a cover. The small table over the tray which sits on the large table is ridiculous, as well as being largely ineffective.
I watched the tray through the window for a long time, sipping my coffee while my husband flipped through the paper. When I’d reached the bottom of my mug, I let the dogs into the yard for their morning business, and checked the tray again. I hadn’t seen anything near the picnic table where it lived but sure enough, footprints - paw prints - were there again.
I went back inside, flanked by dogs who were understandably upset about not being allowed to track the scent from below the table.
“There are more,” I said to my husband, “paw prints in the birdseed.”
“I thought you were watching,” he said.
“I was,” I confirmed.
“Well, dear. It seems you have a mystery.”
Sometimes, men are no help at all.
From CafeWriting:
Remember that everyone you meet is afraid of something, loves something, and has lost something.
Write either three short verses or one long stanza about these three things - fear, love, and loss. Any form of poetry is fine - haiku, a sonnet - whatever works.
I’m not a poet. I dabbled in verse ages ago, but I generally think in sentences. Still, it’s a good exercise to play with other forms once in a while. I don’t post verse or fiction to my actual blog. That’s what this is for.
I. Fear
Monsters with headlights whizzing by
Cold rain falling from the sky
Hiding for naps
Begging for scraps
Constantly running on tiny feet
This is the life of a stray on the street.
II. Love
He reminds me of the childhood poem
About a little shadow
Up and down the stairs, he’s at my heels.
In the kitchen, he’s underfoot
On the couch or in bed, he curls against my hip
Puppy kisses tell me what he feels.
III. Loss
Day by day, I’m seeing him fade.
He’s withdrawing from us a little
As if he knows his clock is winding down.
His muzzle is grey where it once was black
The “eyeliner” that helped earn his name is nearly gone
He’s taken to barking at the other dogs in town
Ten isn’t old for a Chihuahua, they say
But they forget the epilepsy, the years on the street
And the dental issues, and the heart disease.
They just see the spry little man with the sickle tail
Ears erect, nose a-quiver, eyes all big and round
Like a plumber, the vet never hears him sneeze.
I know our other dog feels second best,
Which is ridiculous because I love them both
Differently, because MissCleo is a dog for play
While Zorro, my little man, is content to be quiet
Always near, his quiet presence warming my heart,
I don’t know how I’ll deal when he finally slips away.