“There is a Selkie in our bathtub”
A short story about casting off your skin, fish-fingers, old carpet and a dog called Dennis.
There is a Selkie in our bathtub.
She’s quiet now, but usually you can hear her moving about because the water splashes over the rim and Dad goes mad about the floor.
“Fish don’t pay the deposit,” he says.
“Miss McColl says seals are mammals, not fish,” I explain.
We had a lesson about animals and their families at the beginning of term and there was a whole bit on seals. They raise their pups on milk, like people do, and the mums look after them until they are ready to go out and swim on their own.
Dad does not find this helpful. His mouth goes all thin when he’s unhappy, like someone has pulled on the other side of his beard. A lot of it is grey, now.
The couple on the bottom floor has a big dog that always sniffs my pockets, with fur like silvery wire. He has a coat made of Dad’s Beard and is called Dennis. Sometimes he comes and watches me tie my laces in the morning, with eyes like jawbreakers. He just sits there. And then the lady will whistle for him and he pads home, big paws slapping like welly boots.
