The Key to Life

As I have learned over the years, it is best to be an early morning riser with a cat. So, at seven o’clock, I had taken Junko and Mochi out for a run. My little, black kitty-cat, Junko, enjoys our early morning walks just as much as Mochi, my speckled Australian sheepdog. And, as usual, on our way home, we stop at the mailbox.

As I open the mailbox Junko, whose taken to perching on my shoulder today, swats his paw out in front of me and clips his nails onto one of the letters. I let him keep it as we jog back home.

We live out in the middle of nowhere, acres of my land are nothing but miles upon miles of trees, which can be a bit of a hassle sometimes. So, when Mochi takes off ahead of us I’m not worried, she knows to stay on the dirt road and to avoid any wild animals, especially after she tried to make friends with a pissed off skunk.

As I’m jogging back to the house, a truck pulls up next to me. I cannot help rolling my eyes. Like I said before, this property is a bit of a hassle to own, because every few days I get one or two visitors asking to use my land. There have been hunters, loggers, and land developers on my front porch since the day I moved in. I keep thinking it would be best to just put up a sign on the main road telling people to piss off.

The man rolls down his window and sticks his head out, he looks down his nose at me and with a thick western ascent he says, “Are you the owner of this here land?”

“Yes,” I say trying to be as polite as possible.

“We are looking to do some hunting. We’d stay far away from the house.”

I inwardly cringe. “No,” I grit my teeth. “I don’t allow anybody to hunt on my property, I’m sorry you had to come all the way out here.”

“Please ma’am, we’d be very careful to stay clear of your home,” this little kid from the front seat leans over smiling eagerly.

“Sorry, I don’t allow hunting on my property, not even my uncles who pester me very season.”

“That’s a shame,” the older man says. “I thank you for your time, ma’am.”

I barely have time to jump out of the way before the driver makes a violent U-turn, kicking up dirt and rock. I was lucky to have gotten out of the way, but I was use to it by now, this was a common reaction from most of the people looking to use my land.

By the time I get home, I’m out of breath. What I want to do is throw myself down onto the porch swing, it had to be the most comfortable furnishing I owned, and it’s where I spend half my day. The long couch is like a bowl that swallows me up in its heavenly soft pillows. First, I set Junko down on the couch, his claws snagging on my shirt not wanting to let go just yet. I lay down on the couch, sinking into the soft pillows, Junko rests on my head and Mochi who has been waiting patiently doesn’t hesitate to jump on top of me and lay down on my stomach.

“Mochi,” I say while giving him a scratch between the ears, “you’re too big to be doing this.”

I pull out the mail from the pock of my windbreaker and looking through it. Junk mail mostly, the bank trying to sell me insurance and a letter saying I have payed my taxes this year. Satisfied, I set aside the letters to file away later, paper can be wasteful but it’s legally comforting. I tug at the last letter sitting at my head, Junko’s claws still clucking at it.

“Junko, give,” I say, and Junko retracts his claws.

I rip open the envelop, but there’s no letter, the only thing that falls out is a key. A key with a locker number 21665. The return address is Toronto, just Toronto, which, as lucky would have it, was the lovely city I live just outside of.

I sit up and googling lock smiths on my android I find that today I’d take a trip to see Pro Locksmiths at 611 Mt. Pleasant Road.