Through the Side Door

This story is by Darcy Kate and won the Grand Prize in our 2025 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

Darcy Kate is the author of the heartfelt novel You Can Call Me Clover: A Dog Rescue Story. As a lifelong animal lover, she enjoys writing stories from animals’ perspectives. Darcy lives in New Hampshire and holds degrees in English and marketing. Learn more at darcykatewriter.com.

“Happy birthday, dear Petunia…”

I listened to Mom and Dad sing the high parts a little too high and the low parts a little too low. 

“Happy birthday to you!”

This was the eighth time they’d sung this song to me and the second time they’d sung it without Skylar. Skylar had been my best friend ever since I’d started living with her. 

“Petunia, down,” Mom said as soon as I hopped from the barstool to the counter. They never liked it when I climbed up there, but I thought I’d have some leeway with all of the attention today. 

I purred in my dad’s arms as he picked me up to console me. He was always extra sweet to me on the day they sang the “happy birthday dear Petunia” song. But even with the extra love, I still missed Skylar. She never had an issue with me on the counter.

Skylar liked to sing to me and always smelled like fresh fruit, her breath was minty, and I got to sleep with her in her bed. If I nudged her with my nose, she’d rub my ears and if I turned my head to the right, she’d scratch under my chin. She always knew what I needed and just the way I needed it.

Two long periods of snow-covered ground had come and gone since the last time she’d come through the side door. 

Before Skylar had gone, she’d started coming home carrying the scent of sickening smoke and someone else. Even with her sullen eyes, I’d try nudging her and turning my head, but she didn’t always respond the way she used to.

I started pacing in front of doorways and meowing to keep her home. I didn’t understand why she kept leaving when it just made her sad and smell bad.

Each time I tried stopping her, she’d pick me up and pet me, but I wasn’t doing it for attention. I wanted to keep her away from whatever was causing her watery eyes and drooping face. 

When she’d first stopped coming home for three days straight, I stopped eating. I had a side door to monitor and my hunger became secondary to waiting for Skylar’s return. Mom moved my food and water so I could eat closer to the door. I felt less purpose in the act of eating without Skylar around, but at least I’d be close when she finally came home. 

Mom and Dad spent the first few days of Skylar’s prolonged absence pacing, talking, and crying. I spent my time by the door keeping track of each day she was gone. Each time I reached 30, I started over. I didn’t know what came next. 

Sometime between the first and second set of 30, Mom and Dad started leaving the house more, but with slower movements and less conversation. I’d overhear them talking about her sometimes, mentioning things like “bad influence,” “boyfriend,” and “police,” but none of their talking ever brought her home.

Sometimes my mom would suddenly start crying, so I’d rub up against her and purr to let her know I understood how she felt. She’d pet me on the head and scratch under my chin, but the timing was off and the pressure wasn’t right. 

Dad would cry too, but only in the bathroom. I’d lie outside the door so I was there to comfort him when he got out, all while ensuring my ears were tuned to the side door. He’d fluff up the top of my head and tell me I was a good girl with a gruff voice each time he exited with puffy eyes.

Then I’d return to the side door.

When I thought about it, it didn’t really make sense for me to monitor the door. If Skylar came home, she’d make her presence known. She wouldn’t smell bad and we’d both be able to snuggle then wake up happy together. 

But Mom and Dad weren’t always home, so it was my duty to monitor the door when I could. Someone had to be there to greet Skylar when she returned. 

Most days, envelopes and papers came through a small slit in the side door. Mom or Dad would pick them up when they got home and look through them. It was a routine I hadn’t paid much attention to until the day there was a familiar scent I couldn’t ignore. As soon as the envelope entered the home, there was no mistaking the scent of fruit, mint, and smoke. 

Skylar. 

I bounced off the floor, excitedly shocked by Skylar’s scent running through the home again. The smell wasn’t strong enough to make me believe that she was close by, but I could tell that she’d at least touched the envelope. 

I pounced on the scented envelope, then flopped to the floor and rolled while I basked in memories of my best friend. I started to purr as I pictured Skylar holding me when I was tiny, playing with the crazy wand of strings, and cuddling with me on the couch when the sun hit just right. I pawed at the envelope eagerly and then watched as it vanished under the refrigerator.

When Mom arrived home later, she picked up the rest of the papers and envelopes and took them to the counter as usual. I paced by the refrigerator and meowed. It still smelled like Skylar. Mom had to smell it too. 

When Dad came home, Mom told him I was acting weird. 

“It’s like she forgot she was fed. She won’t stop meowing and rubbing against the fridge.”

They looked at me like I was exhibiting odd behavior. I sat down as I realized they couldn’t smell Skylar. 

Now I had to monitor the side door and the refrigerator. Each morning, I’d sleep in the sun spot in front of the door and when the sun disappeared, I’d rest by the refrigerator and fall asleep as it hummed. 

The envelopes and papers continued to come through the door, but nothing new carried a trace of Skylar.

“I really don’t get her obsession with the fridge,” Mom said one night while cleaning up after dinner. 

“I know,” Dad replied. “I really thought this would’ve ended by now, but it’s been happening for almost two weeks straight.” 

“Maybe she’s trying to tell us something,” Mom said. 

“Or maybe she’s just getting hungrier as she ages,” Dad said with a shrug.

“Maybe there’s something wrong with the fridge,” Mom said with a laugh.

“I don’t see how she could possibly know that,” Dad said. “It’s been working fine. Everything is cold. It doesn’t even make any weird noises, even though it’s probably fifteen years old at this point.”

Two days later, Mom and Dad huddled by the refrigerator. It was broken. Or so they said. It didn’t seem that different to me, but I was more focused on the fading fragrance it covered.

Dad left and came back while Mom placed all the food on the counter. Two strangers came in carrying a huge item that looked a lot like our refrigerator. 

I rubbed against ours, still smelling Skylar and finding as much peace as possible from her scent. 

“We’ll need you to move your cat, Sir,” one of the strangers said. 

“Yes, sorry about that, she’s gotten quite attached to our fridge lately,” Dad said. “Do you want to take Petunia, honey?” 

Mom swooped me into her arms and whispered to me. “How did you know the fridge was going to stop working?” 

I rubbed against her face and purred. 

“It’s her birthday today,” Mom said softly to me. “I’d much rather be buying Skylar presents than this fridge.”

“All right, well that takes care of it,” said the stranger. “Your new fridge should be fully cooled within the next 24 hours.”

“Great, thank you so much,” Dad said.

“Oh,” said the other stranger. “This was under your old fridge. Not sure if it’s important to you or not.” 

I watched as the man handed Dad the Skylar-scented envelope. Almost immediately, he fell to his knees.

Mom rushed over to Dad while the strangers quietly snuck out the door. 

After a few minutes, Mom and Dad hugged with tears in their eyes as they held the contents of the envelope. I started to roll around by their sides as the scents of Skylar grew stronger with the release of the papers. 

“She’s…” Mom said.

“Coming home,” Dad replied. 

I walked to the side door. I could smell something else now, too. More fruit and mint, but cleaner. Newer.

I pressed my nose to the bottom of the door to take in the strengthening aroma. Then I heard footsteps outside.

Mom and Dad looked at the door as a knock came from the other side. I meowed, sat down expectantly, then meowed again. I was ready for the “happy birthday dear Skylar” song. My best friend was home.