Feeding Mr. Whiskers
By Dawn Bonanno
––––––––
THE CREAKY DOOR OPENED and dropped a shaft of kitchen light onto the basement stairs. The first few wooden steps promised no harm—it was those hidden in darkness that made Melanie hesitate. Mr. Whiskers meowed beside her but didn't budge.
“Hurry up,” Mom said as she banged pots and spoons around on the stove. “Dinner's almost ready.”
“I could watch the stove for you,” Melanie offered.
Mom half turned and gave her The Look.
It was supposed to be easy taking care of Mr. Whiskers while Dad was away. Scoop the poop and fill the food and water bowls. Except, the food canister held only crumbs.
“Mr. Whiskers won't even go down there.”
“He's eighteen.”
Melanie sighed. Grandpa level in kitty years, but she'd seen him do the stairs when he rea
