The day the pets talked |
The 6 a.m. alarm didn’t wake the Miller family. Barnaby, their golden retriever with the intellectual depth of a sourdough starter, did.
“HEY GUYS. I LICKED A SOCKET AND NOW I CAN TASTE SHAPES. HEY!”
As Barnaby bounded away, Jim Miller bolted upright. “Who’s in the room?”
“It is I, the harbinger of your morning disappointment,” a raspy, sophisticated voice drifted from the foot of the bed.
It was Luna, the tuxedo cat, grooming a paw with an air of profound boredom.
“Jim, your snoring sounds like a walrus choking on bagpipes. It’s gauche.”
Jim and his wife, Sarah, also jolted awake and stared in silent horror. Down the hall, the kids bolted out of their rooms.
“Mom! Dad! The dog is asking me about the ‘forbidden sky-water’ in the toilet!” shrieked 10-year-old Leo.
“AAUGH! The bird is quoting my diary!” 13-year-old Chloe wailed.
Minutes later, in the living room, Barnaby was vibrating with excitement.
“GUYS! I have so many questions. Why do you put my poop in bags? Is it a collection? Are you a museum? I’m honoured to contribute!”
“Oh, shut up, you sentient marshmallow,” Luna snapped, leaping onto the kitchen counter. She looked at Sarah.
“The ‘premium’ kibble you’ve been buying tastes like despair and cardboard. I want the tuna, the one in the gold tin.”
From the corner of the room, a low tectonic rumble emerged from a glass tank. Sheldon, the red-eared slider turtle, had dragged his head out of his shell.
“I have watched you eat an entire rotisserie chicken over the sink in your underwear, Jim,” Sheldon stated with the gravity of an ancient deity. “Also, the water filter has been buzzing in B-flat for six years. Fix it, or I shall continue to judge your lineage.”
Suddenly, a streak of blue feathers zipped through the air. Peeps the budgie landed on the chandelier, bobbing frantically.
“Juicy news! Juicy news!” he shrieked. “Chloe likes Jason! Jason has a dirt bike! Dirt bike! Vroom vroom! I saw the texts! I have no eyelids and I see EVERYTHING!”
“I am going to bake that bird into a pie,” Chloe hissed.
“You lack the gumption,” Luna purred, knocking a glass of water off the counter just to watch it shatter.
Barnaby barked, spinning in a circle.
“Can we go for a walk? I want to yell at the mailman. He’s a spy. He puts paper in the box! The box is full of secrets that MUST BE SNIFFED!”
Sarah sat down at the kitchen table, burying her face in her hands.
“Can we return them? Any of them?”
“I heard that!” Peeps chirped. “Canada Revenue Agency! Sarah’s hiding a second income! Squawk! Tax evasion!”
“That’s it,” Jim sighed, throwing a coat over his PJs. “I’m going to the 24-hour pet store to see if they sell muzzles in different sizes.”
“Bring back the gold tins,” Luna called out, “or I tell the neighbours what you really think about them.”
“If our pets can now talk, we must negotiate a ‘silence for snacks’ treaty,” muttered Sarah.
Abruptly, a gurgle emanated from a corner of the living room. Wanda, the veiltail goldfish, spoke in a watery warble.
“The cat has been plotting to ‘accidentally’ knock my tank over since 2022. I have the transcripts.”
Luna didn’t even look up from her paw.
“The fish called Wanda is a snack with an attitude problem. It’s a hobby.”
“Hey,” said Chloe. “Do all animals talk now, or is it just our pets?”
“Just your pets,” said the squirrel perched on the windowsill outside the screen window. “Also, your bird feeder needs refilling.”