Jug

It happened the night before Christmas. We live alone: me, my son Max, and our cat. We always had a thick-walled jug of water in the kitchen. It was made of some kind of shatterproof fiberglass. I bought it specifically so Max wouldn't break it—he loves accidentally breaking dishes.

On the morning of the 7th, I went into the kitchen, poured myself some coffee and Max some tea, and grabbed the jug of water to dilute the boiling water. Then my jaw dropped: a large chunk of fiberglass had been BITENED OFF the top of the thick wall of the jug. Bitten off, as if someone had taken a chocolate bar and bitten it with all their teeth at once. The mark of each tooth was visible in the half-circle of the missing piece. I thought for about two minutes and started looking for the pieces of glass, but they were nowhere to be found. I ran into Max's bedroom: "Is that you?" "Am I stupid, chewing glass? Ask a cat," my skeptic joked. I roughly calculated: the mouth that bit the pitcher was bigger than the cat's and smaller than Max's. And no human or animal could do such a thing. Once again, my hair stood on end with the realization that THIS CANNOT BE HAPPENING. I poked around the apartment with that pitcher and couldn't think of anything better to do than throw it down the garbage chute. I deeply regret it now—I should have left it there for the skeptics to see. But believe me, I wasn't thinking about it then; my heart was pounding like crazy. And for almost a year now, whenever I walk into the kitchen, I glance at the jar of water: is it still whole?