By Mikki Aronoff
Judy’s husband, Howard, barges into the hospital room, crumples his nose. It smells of hyacinth and bleach. “Lookin’ good, honey!” he blurts, checking his watch.
Judy’s stretched out on the bed, surrounded by the spirits of her childhood pets. Nestled at her shoulder is her beagle, Tippy, his tail fanning her face. Uncle Elizabeth, the rat who bruxed and boggled, clinging to Judy’s sweatshirt as she bicycled through her neighborhood, nests in the crook of Judy’s arm next to Harriet the hamster, who’d eaten her own pups. Tomcat, rescued from a storm drain, unsheathes his claws, ready to pounce on a carnival-won goldfish now nibbling Judy’s toes. TweetyToo, her canary, circles her head in a buttery halo. Tails tuck and wings fold as Judy’s breaths slow and her eyes shut.
Howard snaps his fingers an inch from Judy’s resting face. “Hey! Eyes up! I need you to sign something!” Howard’s shoving a piece of paper right under her nose. The word “DEED” is at the top. He jams a pen between her fingers, leans back and sniffs. The air smells furry. Feathered. Like animals, he thinks, scowling. He’s never liked animals, especially inside. He doesn’t see them positioning themselves between Judy and him. His right foot staccato-taps as he waits for a response from her, shivers as he feels something like claws picking at his itchy beard, teeth nipping at his chest.
“Stay with me, Jude.” He tightens her limp fingers around the slipping pen and squeezes. “Let’s just make an X….”
Judy gasps, then sighs a long, soft breath.
The animals bow their heads. Squirrels bark and snap their tails. A piebald pony rises up on its hind legs and whinnies. A snarl of starlings tents Judy with a silken canopy spun from the finest cobwebs.
“Never seen anything like it,” the night shift duty nurses say to each other as they enter Judy’s room. There are feathers all over the floor. Howard’s spread-eagled on the cold linoleum, his mouth twisted. Scratches and bites and hoof prints pattern his stiffening corpse. Judy’s body lies peaceful on the bed. The nurses step over Howard’s hulk. With quick, skillful hands, they wash her in water infused with lavender, wrap her with care, the animals gone quiet now.
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Mikki Aronoff lives in New Mexico, where she writes tiny stories and advocates for animals. She has stories in Best Microfiction 2024/2025 and Best Small Fictions 2024 and upcoming in Best Small Fictions 2025. More at https://www.facebook.com/mikki.aronoff/.