Down the Drain

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In the darkest corner of a utility room lit only by the trickle of light leaking in around the window's heavy curtain, the calico found her food and water dishes in the recess between the washing and drying machines and buried her snout in the too-dry food. The noise she made when she ate sounded something like the crunching-gravel sound the Man’s truck made when he came home from work. She dropped a piece of food and lapped it off the floor. Crunch crunch.

When she’d had her fill, she licked a few powdery crumbs from her whiskers and turned to the water dish.

The dry water dish.

She meowed and turned away with an uppity swish of her tail.

The Man was good about keeping her food bowl full, but when it came to keeping her watered, he still needed some training.

She jumped into the laundry basket on the dryer, peed into the mound of unfolded clothes, and went in search of something to drink.

Last time the Man had left her dry, she’d found a pot in the kitchen sink half full of water and some kind of orangish substance she thought was supposed to be cheese (although not any kind of cheese she’d ever eat). Drinking that water had been disgusting and more than a little degrading, but it had been better than dying of dehydration. Probably.

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