Jenny, who is a dog
Jenny, who is a dog, came into the living room, sat down on the floor, and spoke. “What supper?” she said, tail thumping on the hardwood.
I stared at her. “Beg pardon?” I was shocked enough that I actually responded. To a dog. You see the state of mind I was in?
“Supper. Food. What?”
“Uh – ” I’d been making my own dog food, these days. Jenny was old, and store-brand food wasn’t doing her any favours. “Liver and rice, for you,” I said. “I think pizza for me.”
“Good. Liver good,” she said, and trotted off to the dining room.
I went into the kitchen and got a beer out of the fridge. As I twisted the cap off, my phone rang.
“Doug?” It was Lisa, my girlfriend. “Uh, Doug, I didn’t know who to call – “
“Calm down,” I said. “Deep breaths. What’s up?”
“Mr. Kit,” she said. “He’s – ” She couldn’t go on.
“He’s talking?” I said, and there was silence on the line. I knew I was right. Mr. Kit, who is a cat, was talking too.
Jenny came into the kitchen and sat on the floor. “Jenny good dog,” she said.