Fish Food

            A bell jingled when they opened the door, a homely smell of dog food and lemony soap failing to completely cover the smell of pet feces. The shopkeeper greeted them from where he sat behind the old desk, surrounded by caged rodents and reptiles and one noisy parakeet that huddled at the bottom of its cage awkwardly. The puppies were up front, and crossing the shop, the boy hesitated by a little cage of cats.

            “Matilda, look!” he said, crouching toward the animals and sticking his finger into the cage. One scrawny orange tabby rubbed its nose against his finger.

            Matilda glanced over. “Roy,” she said, “goldfish food. That’s all we need.”

            “Boring,” he said, entranced by the orange cat. “Just—aw, hey kitty—won’t you buy it? Mom won’t let me have a cat at home—”

            “If I get a cat, it’ll be a kitten, not that old skinny rag.” The little boy’s sister grumbled, going up to the shopkeeper and asking where the fish food was located. He pulled it out from behind him and she paid.

            “You mean you’d get a cat if it was a baby?” asked Roy when his sister finished paying.

            “No, probably not,” she said. “Cats are a pain.” She stuck the jar of fish food into her purse.

            “I could come over and play,” said Roy, poking his nose closer to the cage and letting the friendly tabby lick it.

            “But you wouldn’t clean its poop, or pay for food, would you?” It was a rhetorical question. Matilda sighed and crossed her arms, waiting for her little brother to stand.

            “He’s so cool! Smarter ‘cause he’s older, I bet! Prolly catches his own mice to eat, wow!”

            Then Matilda tapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s go,” she said. “Mom wants you back for dinner, so let’s take you home.”