Lump

Oatmeal

Oatmeal

Dedicated to my Belle, who always gets the last bite.

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SUNSHINE COMES IN THROUGH the window and presses a warm hand to her cheek. She shifts in the bed, lowers her feet to the floor, and rises. She pads across the floor, quiet, careful. She doesn’t want to wake him. In the kitchen, the shelves are spare. Their food is almost gone. A cylindrical canister sits on the shelf by the fridge. She opens it. Only one scoop of oats remains in the bottom of the can. Not even enough for one serving. She shakes it out into a bowl and prepares it the usual way, making sure to add just a pinch of salt—that’s all she has left—and stirring occasionally for ten minutes.

She pours the oatmeal into a bowl and places it on the table. It isn’t much. She hears him rise upstairs above her. The flap of his long ears. The ticking of his claws on the bare floor, slow. Steady. His padded feet on the stairs, thumping down each step.

“My dear,” she says, “your breakfast.”

She helps him up onto the chair, just a hand to support his hop. He gazes at her from a face speckled with white. She nods and he laps the oatmeal into his mouth. When he is finished, he looks up at her, licking his lips, and she knows she is a good girl, and she knows that he knows he is a good dog.

Her stomach growls. He c***s his head at the sound. She pets his head, his ears, and pulls him against her belly. He rubs his face against her apron.

They are short of food, but they will never be short of love.