Soured on Pickles

IT STUCK TO the bar of soap in the bathtub, so you didn’t want to wash with it.

- Carol L. MacKay

It found its way into Jordan’s swimming goggles, so it was impossible to see straight.

“Mom, we have to shave that cat or get rid of her,” said Jordan. “Really?” said Mom. “But you love Pickles. She sleeps at the foot of your bed every night.”

“Pickles’s hair has turned me sour. There is cat hair on my socks. I look like a Neanderthal! There is cat hair on my glue stick. It’s lost its gumminess! There is cat hair in the fishbowl. It’s sopping up all the water! It’s in my keyboard. It’s in my tuba. It’s in between the fingers of my baseball glove!”

“Vacuum,” said Mom.

“Lint brush,” said Jordan’s stepdad, Malcolm.

These things helped some. But cat hair still landed in Jordan’s favorite book. There was still cat hair on Jordan’s toothbrush. Cat hair still filled Jordan’s running shoes.

Pickles was grooming herself as she sat on Jordan’s lap on the sofa, like she always did when Jordan watched movies or played games. A few strands of soft white fur floated into the air.

“Someone, get me a cat shaver!” yelled Jordan, to no one in particular.

Pickles stopped mid-lick to look Jordan straight in the eye.