Jackster

An Excerpt

Jack sits on the windowsill and nuzzles the fern. It’s beginning to shed its dead leaves. The plant, dried to the roots, is brown and dead, the leaves crunching underfoot.

He lifts his leg and waters it.

His human hasn’t been home in a while. At first, he didn’t mind. They’d been gone before. But this feels longer. He misses the affection. The food. The water. The clean litterbox—now overflowing. They will come back soon, they always do.

But still, he misses them.

In the first few days, he sniffed every place the human would go. His food bowl room. His human’s sleep-room. His human’s water-room. Even the room at the bottom of the stairs where his human rarely went. All now bereft of them and their smells.

He chews on the plant, but he hates its bitter taste. His bowls had been empty since soon after they left. The drip in the water-room’s sink helps, but it’s never enough. He has to find food and water. He needs to find a way out.

Downstairs, he searches for an open door, but finds none. He spies a mouse, captures and plays with it for a while. But quickly bores of its listlessness and eats it. He leaves the carcass where he can find it—just in case. Mice will satisfy his hunger if he can find them. He calls out for his human, but there’s no answer. Just a bowl of water is all he wants.

Things are strewn all over the dark room. It’s like a giant playground just for him. Some have fun hiding places. He likes it down here. The darkness helps him forget he’s alone. When he wakes, he searches for his human again.

His ears tweak to any errant sounds in the house. Whenever he hears something new, he dashes upstairs, sure the human has returned. He sits in front of the door with the tip of his tail curled up, expectantly. He raises his paw, in want. His human always knew what it meant. When the door doesn’t open, he lowers his paw and walks back downstairs.