My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie When the kitten opened its mouth, only the sound of swing band saxophones came out. Dr. Simon Smithy had never experienced such a phenomenon, and wrote it down in his notes. " What have you been feeding Sergeant Cuddles?" he asked a recently post-pubescent Frankie, who gazed at him cluelessly through pink-rimmed spectacles and twirled her reddish blonde hair. "I dunno. Usual stuff. He's never had a problem." "And do you play with him?" asked the veterinarian. "Yeah, occasionally. But Timothy plays with him more." "Timothy?" "Yeah. My boyfriend. He moved in a few months ago. Sergeant Cuddles loooooves him." Dr. Smithy wrote up a prescription for anti-inflammatory jazz stabilizers and gave the poor feline a great big dose of Mozart through a dripping needle. Sergeant Cuddles yowled out a ten-minute tenor saxophone improvisation as Frankie, rolling her eyes, pulled him back in his carrier an

I was lending a hand to a little boy who wanted to reach a box of Wheat Thins on a very tall shelf in the local grocery store when I saw Harry limping down the aisle. He looked much more leathery than before, as if the sun had taken his face out to a barbecue and marinated it was thick, sweet sauce. His pupils noticeably dilated even from a distance, but he seemed to recognize me. "Well," he said with a wispy laugh. "I didn't think you'd still be here."