By Pamela Love

“Can you get the door, Miriel? Peaches here is a real handful,” Stephanie Brent said to me as she struggled with a little orange tabby. It snarled shrilly and scrabbled at her pink jacket’s collar. Tyler Galaro and his Shetland ponies had already arrived.

We were at Ladbrook Assisted Living—a nice place, I might move here myself in a decade or so—for the weekly animal therapy session. Normally, my Saint Bernard, Matteo, was eager to enter the dayroom to be cuddled by the elderly residents. But he loved kittens even more. Despite my grip on his collar, he was pulling hard, trying to get a better look at the newcomer.

“Down, Matteo. What happened to Felix? He’s much calmer. Peaches looks too young to be here.”

Stephanie made kissy noises at the tiny terror. “Peaches is full-grown. You’ve heard of teacup dogs? She’s, uh, a teacup cat. She’s not a kitten any more than Tyler’s ponies are foals.”

“Teacup? She’s not even teaspoon sized.” I  stopped as we neared the day room. “Take her home to her mama and come back with Felix. You live two blocks away.”

Stephanie tossed her blonde curls. Peaches swatted at them. “Nobody here cares about Felix.” Which wasn’t true. He was a crowd pleaser—just not as popular as the ponies. “You’re jealous because she’s adorable. Everybody’s going to love her more than your massive mutt. You watch, everyone’s going to be all smiles except you and Tyler.”

Smirking, she pushed past me to swing the door open. “Those ponies of his are going to—”

Whatever she expected them to do, it wasn’t freak out, but that’s what happened. Nostrils flaring and panic-stricken, they yanked their halters out of Tyler’s hands and galloped across the tiled floor. Unluckily for Tyler, they happened to reach the doors to the residential area just as an aide opened them.

Tyler sprinted after them. “Matteo, stay!” I ran after Tyler, white hair and all—this old lady still moves pretty fast when it counts. Reminds me of my youth on Epsilon 8, battling the Screamers from the Stars.

Nevertheless, moments later Matteo bounded past both of us. I rolled my eyes. Just this once, I wish I’d adopted a sloth. Or some dog that obeyed me the way my droid did.

“Matteo, come!” Ignoring my calls and Tyler’s frantic beckoning, my Saint Bernard cornered the runaways. Keeping his distance from those hooves and snapping teeth, he tilted his head, then snuffled at Rocky and Daisy. He whuffed twice. Minutes passed. Little by little, their heads lowered, their ears relaxed, and their tails stilled.

Tyler and I exchanged startled glances as we each took a calm pony by the halter. “Give Matteo a treat for me. I didn’t know your pooch spoke pony.”

“I didn’t either. Good boy, Matteo.” Leading Daisy, I followed Tyler outside via a hall exit. “What could’ve set them off, I wonder?”

“Hard to say with ponies. The strangest things can spook them.” He shrugged as he lowered his van’s ramp. “If I don’t find out, I can’t bring them back.”

As Tyler’s van rumbled away, Matteo and I headed back to the dayroom. I figured out where the Screamers’ base was. I can solve this, too. Everyone at Ladbrook looked forward to animal therapy, and Daisy and Rocky were always the biggest attraction.

Back inside, Stephanie was kneeling beside Gary Shaw’s wheelchair. Gary, my former neighbor, moved here due to dementia and mobility issues. He used to be a brilliant biology professor. I’ve read all his bestselling books on mammals. Smile lines deep around his blue eyes, he stroked the kitten—or cat, according to Stephanie—which had settled down in his lap. “Cool…” he said. Despite the session’s hectic start, at least some good had come of this visit.

Spotting me, Stephanie gasped. “You brought that dog back here? That vicious brute attacked those ponies.”

Andrea Chang, the recreational therapist, pursed her lips. “I think ‘attacked’ is overstating it, but perhaps you should take Matteo home, Miriel. He’s had enough excitement.”

Mine was one of a chorus of groans. Alice Farley defiantly pushed her walker toward my dog—she used to have a Saint Bernard herself. While she fed him a dog treat, I argued that Daisy and Rocky had seen Matteo every week for a year without any problems. “He just quieted them down in the hall. Call Tyler if you don’t believe me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Stephanie struck a dramatic pose in front of Gary’s wheelchair, her arms outstretched to shield its occupants. “He’ll scare my cat!”

My friend patted Stephanie’s elbow. “Smile… Dawn.” His eyes brightened, reminding me of the way he used to be.

Stephanie wrinkled her nose. “My name’s not Dawn. And I don’t listen to men telling me to smile. I’m taking my cat home.”

To my astonishment, Gary resisted her grasping fingers, pushing them away with surprising strength. “Not… kitty cat.” He scratched the tabby’s side. She rolled over for a tummy rub. “Smile… Dawn.” For the first time I took a good look at Peaches’s face and noticed fangs curving down past her jaw. I gasped.

“I’m not Dawn,” Stephanie insisted, hands on hips.

“No, you’re not.” I pointed. “But this feline isn’t a ‘teacup’ housecat, either. It’s a Minifauna version of an extinct feline, called Smilodon. Genetically engineered to be no larger than a guinea pig because it would be too dangerous otherwise, and very illegal in private hands.”

Her face reddened. Gary gave me a feeble thumbs up.

“No wonder its scent frightened the ponies. Tiny or not, it’s a predator that evolved at the same time and place horses did. They have a visceral, instinctive fear of it. I can’t believe you brought a saber–toothed tiger as a therapy animal.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Pamela Love was born in New Jersey and worked as a teacher and in marketing before becoming a writer. Her work has appeared in Havok, Page & Spine, and Luna Station Quarterly. She is the 2020 winner of the Magazine Merit Fiction Award for her story “The Fog Test,” which appeared in Cricket. She and her family live in Maryland.

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