Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

“Yes, you did. It’s fine. Listen, if it’s all right with you,
let’s just say goodbye now. I meant it when I said I’d like to
stay friends. You’re a good guy. No hard feelings, okay?”
After a moment, he says flatly, “Sure. No hard feelings. No
feelings either way, I know that’s your specialty. You take
care, Nat.” He disconnects, leaving me listening to dead air.
I sigh, closing my eyes.
He’s wrong about me not having feelings. I have all kinds
of feelings. Anxiety. Fatigue. Low-level depression. An
unshakeable melancholy paired with gentle despair.
See? I’m not the emotional iceberg I get accused of being.
I hang the receiver back onto the cradle on the wall. It
instantly rings again.
I hesitate, unsure if I want to answer or start binge drinking
like I do every year on this day at this time, but decide I’ve got
another ten minutes or so to kill before I start the annual ritual.
“Hello?”
“Did you know that cases of schizophrenia rose sharply
around the turn of the twentieth century, when domestic cat
ownership became common?”
It’s my best friend, Sloane. She has no interest in starting a
conversation in a normal way, which is one of the many
reasons I love her.
“What’s your beef with cats, anyway? It’s pathological.”
“They’re furry little serial killers who can give you braineating
amoebas from their poo, but that’s not my point.”
“What’s your point?”
“I’m thinking of getting a dog.”
Trying to picture fiercely independent Sloane with a dog, I
glance over at Mojo, snoozing in a slice of sunlight on the
floor in the living room. He’s a black-and-tan Shepherd mix, a
hundred pounds of love in a shaggy coat, with a tail like a
plume that’s constantly wagging.