Zenitopia

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.