by Mikki Aronoff
I point to the mess plopped smack in the middle of the living room rug. “Your dog,” I remind Matt, who brought Bandit with him when he moved in ten years ago, then swerve to whether he’d like peas in tonight’s risotto.
“Culinary diversion won’t work,” he pouts, slouching onto the sofa, sipping his second absinthe frappé, slinging slippered feet onto the newly-polished coffee table, “and anyway, he seems to favor your lap these days.”
In another universe, a grownup one in which we’d discuss canine cognitive disorder and its attendant problems without steam hissing from our ears like an angry cartoon couple, one in which I’d refrain from mixing a soupçon of ground glass with the shaved ice in his drink because he never stoops to scoop Bandit’s poop, we’d agree we’re in uncharted territory with a diminished animal, once engaging and playful, prancing on walks and snuggling like a button, but who’s now wired like a crazed racoon on the prowl for bugs and trash while shunning proper meals, pacing and panting, leaping off high spots blind, locked into corners and leaning into dream worlds only he can parse; in that universe, I’d shrug, acknowledge that a decade makes Bandit our doggo, not just Matt’s and he’d admit it would be more equitable to share the chores. “Peas, sure,” Matt would say, taking his feet off the table. “How can I help?”
Mikki Aronoff lives in New Mexico, where she writes tiny stories and advocates for animals. She has stories in Best Microfiction 2024 and 2025 and Best Small Fictions 2024 and 2025. She is a co-author of the book, Neverafters.
Photo Credit: Jack Plant on Unsplash
