The Smashed Pickle Jar

Pickle Jar

The cupboard door is open so I jump in. 

My new keeper raises her voice at me, waves her hand and says, “Shoo, shoo”. I scramble around on the shelf and my back foot knocks over a pickle jar. It lands on the floor behind me as I leap for safety. The smell is atrocious.

I listen from the bottom of the stairs as the man talks to the woman. Their sounds turn to laughter.

“We’ll record the broken pickle jar and add it to the list,” the lady says.

“Gee, we’ve already started a list?” the man says.

I appreciate their honesty. Earlier, the woman was emptying the dishwasher and she dropped a glass mug. It’s handle broke off. She picked up a pen and wrote something on a piece of paper on top of the microwave. I watched the whole  episode from the low shelf beside the oven. She and I have something in common it seems.

I hear her footfalls and tuck myself into the basket near the washing machine. I’m comforted by the scent of my former master. I rub myself over the soft surface. I miss her.

I watch inconspicuously as the lady hauls the floor washing pail up the stairs. Later, I saunter over the clean floor were the pickles used to lay and make my way to my scratch tower by the window. I’ll look outside for a while.

Yoda

I had an accident and that’s why I only have one eye.

My male owner set up a ladder against a wall in the basement. It looked fantastic so I leapt onto it from the staircase handrail. It all happened so fast. The ladder started falling back and I clung on too long I guess. I couldn’t scramble away and it hit me on the head.

I don’t remember what happened after that except that when I arrived home that night and looked at my reflection in the window, I only had one good eye. It’s still as blue as the Alberta sky and I’m thinking about wearing an eye patch.

Oh! I hear the rattle of my favourite treat bag. Talk to you later.