Honorable Mention 2026 Gooseberry Pie Writing Competition
by Dawn Tasaka Steffler
A box waits in front of the animal shelter’s door, on the lid, a message in sharpie: My neighbor died, this is his cat. The vet brings the box in, it is not heavy, lifts the lid; when her son was young, they had a tabby exactly like this one. Now her son is married to an insecure girl who brainwashes him; sometimes, the vet thinks there can’t possibly be any more rage left in her body, it’s all been consumed—but then someone cuts her off on the highway, or she hears a child having a tantrum in the grocery store, or another elderly pet is surrendered “because—” (and she’s heard it all) it pees in the house, it can’t make it up the stairs, it snarled/hissed/attacked the new puppy/kitty. Thoughts chase their tails as she gives the tabby a thorough once over: I am a good person, I help animals, people look up to me, I don’t deserve this. Meanwhile, the kitty keeps trying to climb into her arms, his claws catch on her sleeves, his desperate purr is loud like a lawnmower; she pauses her examination, gives in, holds him close until he settles, murmurs, “You don’t understand how you got here, do you? Neither do I.”
Dawn Tasaka Steffler writes very short stories in San Jose and takes very long naps with her cat.
Photo by Alex Preusser on Unsplash
