Stop Trying To Make Fetch Happen

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I Choo-Choo-Choose You!

Even as I sit to type these words, I hear it. It’s the sound that’s come to define my waking hours and haunt my dreams, the first thing I hear when my eyes open in the morning and the last thing I hear at night before I fall asleep. Whether I’m writing, cooking, reading a book, cleaning the bathroom sink, talking with my husband, blow-drying my hair, or lying in bed, it’s always with me, like the beating of my own heart.

Rattle. Rattle. THUMP.

Rattlerattlerattlerattlerattle.

It’s the sound of a tiny, felt-covered plastic mouse—adorned at its tail with rainbow-colored feathers and filled with something or other that produces a rattling noise—being picked up and shaken vigorously by a cat, then dropped at increasingly closer intervals to my desk chair before being picked up and shaken again. Sure enough, when I swivel in my chair to look behind me, Clayton sits on his haunches about a foot away, his black fur groomed to a high gloss in the sunlight that streams through the window next to us. His golden eyes are impossibly round and hopeful as he stares at me without blinking.

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