Tuesday Is For Tuna

Tuesday is tuna day.

How do I know this? Well, this is sanctuary life where everything is the same every week and I've been here for eight years. Without fail, we've had tuna every Tuesday for each of those eight years.

You see, every day has something specific on the menu. For instance, Monday is salmon pâté. Oreo won't eat it, but I will. I eat mine, then I eat his while he watches with a downtrodden stare.

Wednesday is beef. Everyone likes that.

Thursday is the canned fish that smells horrible.

Friday is turkey.

Over the weekend, we get dry food. They say this builds character, but I've noticed that humans say this when they aren't the ones who are dealing with whatever is going on.

But today is Tuesday. Today is tuna.

Across the room, Phantom stares at the door. Occasionally he'll paw at it to see if it's open, but only if he thinks nobody is watching him. He does this every time the door is open. The humans here say it's part of his nature, that it's because he once lived outdoors. We all nod like we understand, but we really don't. After all, who’d want to go out there?

Overhead, I can hear the humans buzzing around preparing our food for the day. They’re right on time. Bowls are lowered in front of us at precisely the same time every day.

Monday. Salmon.

Tuesday. Tuna.

Wednesday. Beef.

The rest doesn’t matter.

Today is Tuesday. Today is tuna.

The bowls are set down in front of us. Oreo is sitting next to me. He peers into his bowl and quietly comments, “It’s chunkier than last week.”

I remind him that it's tuna.

Phantom finally strolls over to his bowl and joins us.

Everything proceeds as normal.

Halfway through eating, the lights flicker like they do every day. They flicker exactly three times. I know. I’ve counted them. It’s nothing new, so we all continue eating.

On the far wall, there’s a clock. It says Tuesday. It’s always said Tuesday — for as long as I can remember. The numbers work. The hands move. But nobody has ever recalibrated the date.

As if on cue, a human walks over, stands on a small step stool, and carefully adjusts the clock. He twists the side dial with intense concentration. The date window still reads Tuesday when he finishes. He nods, satisfied, and walks away.

As is part of our Tuesday tradition, Oreo nudges the rest of his tuna toward me and I lean over and finish it.

Phantom goes back to his door.

This time his paw reaches through it.

There is no sound of glass. No resistance. His leg simply passes through as if the world forgot to be solid. The rest of him follows, rippling faintly at the edges like heat above pavement. He walks outside.

A human carrying a stack of folded blankets approaches the door at the same time. Without hesitation, she steps forward — directly through Phantom’s middle — and continues on her way. She does not look down. She does not react.

A moment later Phantom steps back through the glass and begins pawing at it again as if it has never opened.

“I wish I was outside,” he comments.

We nod.

The clock ticks.

Tuesday.

We rest in a sunbeam that stretches across the floor. It doesn’t quite match the position of the overhead lights. It angles too sharply, as if coming from a window that doesn’t exist. Slowly — almost politely — it shifts across the tiles. The clock’s shadow falls in the opposite direction. For a moment the two meet and overlap, and the shadow bends unnaturally around the beam before correcting itself.

Oreo finishes licking his paw, looks at me, and casually asks, “Do you ever think of walking out?”

“Out where?”

He gestures toward the glass door.

“The door isn’t—”

He stops.

“It’s closed,” he says, sounding surprised.

“Yes,” I reply.

We sit in a sunbeam that doesn’t belong to any light source. The humans continue walking around us.

Then something unusual happens.

The lights flicker again — exactly three times.

When they do, I stand up and walk toward the door. I place my paw against where the glass should be.

It passes through.

There is no breaking. No tearing. Just a strange coolness — like dipping your paw into still water — followed by a faint tingling that crawls up my leg, as if the air on the other side hums differently.

The fur along my spine lifts.

The rest of me does not follow.

I withdraw my paw quickly.

Oreo sees what’s happening and whispers, “Careful. It’s Tuesday. They don’t like when we forget what day it is.”

He’s right.

Tuesday is tuna day.

Tuesday is structure.

Tuesday is normal.

The clock ticks.

Somewhere, faintly, there is the sound of a can opening.

We all lift our heads at once.

Everything is exactly as it should be.