Draft 3: The Day After

I turned the key and pushed the door open with a weary shoulder, flecks of sleep crumbling from my eye lashes into sore eyes. It was too early to be awake. I was met at the door by reliable and familiar sounds: the clanging of the bell against the glass door behind me, the clamoring of agitated birds, flipping of cedar shavings, howling barks, and stern squawks. The animals heard my movements and the cacophony began.
Someone’s here…

The stench of urine and slightly sweet smell of birds carried me from the door onto the stretch of tile floor into the back storage room which smelled of the parrot’s messy slumber. I placed my sandwich in the fridge and spotted zucchini waiting to be diced. The iguanas must eat. Why do they have to eat such troublesome food?

The light of the shop looked different to me. A fluorescent bulb had died casting a shadow over the looming saltwater tank displayed behind the cash register counter. “How do you clean that thing? It’s huge!” customers would revel, pointing, their eyes tracing it from top to bottom, side to side, keeping the slow rhythm with the lazy swim of neon fish. With the bulb out it radiated an eerie glow.

“I don’t clean it, Ma’am. We have guys here who do that.”

Something stuck in my throat; it felt dry, as did the roof of my mouth. I realized my hand was still inside the iguana tank and one of them was making his way up my wrist. With force, I flung him off and his small, wiry body hit the glass. That was mean. I didn’t feel gentle today. I just needed to get the job done: open shop, last the day, and go home.

It was odd to open the shop alone but to feel crowded while doing it. Creatures peeked out with expectant eyes at every turn. Snakes disturbed from sleep thrashed out of nowhere and hundreds of fish eavesdropped from inside their gurgling homes. This morning they were all rising to the tops of their tanks beckoning like baby birds for me to sprinkle their morning feast down for them. I stared at them blankly. Today I could not feel compassionate toward them, or toward anything in the store.
They blurred into shapelessness and I fell hypnotized by the hum of aquarium filters.

A scroungy bark complained that I had not yet made my way to his corner, and I realized that I needed to feed and clean the pups and kittens. The growls, chirps, and scratching sonance of the animals played their normal orchestra, but I was far away. How could they open the store today? It’s offensive. Don’t they care that somebody has died?

I opened the cage where the scruffy white terrier who wasn’t selling greeted me with over-enthusiasm, such enthusiasm that he knocked over his water bowl, making a wet mess of my shirt. At almost three months, he was beginning to outgrow the cage. I pitied him and would often let him run around the store as I cleaned to allow him a break from the confinement. We had become friends. I set him down, and ecstatic to be free, he catapulted toward the kittens’ cage, interrupting their calm vigil. They hissed and Terrier gnashed his teeth. Havoc ensued: screeching, squawking, whipping of wings, of tails; the kittens growled and Terrier did the only thing he knew to do in response to all of the frenzy: he peed on the floor.

“No!” I scolded. He tried to take off in a sprint as if a reaction from me was a playful invitation. “Damn you, I said no!” I jerked him up by the scruff and glared into his eyes. He let out a yelp from my squeeze. My glare turned into shame. I held him to my chest and felt his hair press like a curly rug under my chin. I will not cry. I have to open this shop in thirty minutes. I will not lose control.

Still facing me were the tasks of cleaning bird cages, sweeping away the piles of birdseed, changing sandy litter pans, feeding the fish, scooping deads. The dead fish must be disposed of, every day. First thing. Never open the store to customers without having scooped the dead.

I felt sick. The space around me began to shrink and look dreamlike. I made my way to the small sink and counter reserved for bagging fish for customers. It was cleared of the usual clutter of pet care supplies. Room had been made available for leisure. We had toiled all day, relieved to take a break.

Upon the space sat two empty Coke cans, the tabs pulled off, and a pile of empty boiled peanut shells. Our peanut shells. He'll never hear these sounds again. Or see this spot where we put our work aside. Or say my name. Or say anybody's name.

I hugged my shoulders. Fell to my knees. The sobs came, like choking.