Must Love Cats

Dale Thomason wasn’t much of a cat person. In fact, he didn’t particularly care for animals of any kind. Or people either, for that matter. He lived alone in a small, one bedroom townhouse and mostly kept to himself. He worked as a food critic for a handful of local magazines and newspapers, which allowed him to eat out often and have someone else pick up the tab without having to actually bother with going on a date—no need for stilted conversation or awkward pauses, no laughing at something someone said that wasn’t all that funny, no expectation of putting out at the end of the night. s*x consisted of his hand, a bottle of lube, and a few old Bel Ami pornos that were beginning to skip in his DVD player. But at least he didn’t have to kick anyone out of his bed come morning. He kept his own hours, and tended to stay up late sipping wine and writing his reviews, only to sleep in the next morning fending off his usual, impending hangover. So it wasn’t unusual for the door of his apartment to squeal open at a quarter to midnight on a chilly January evening as he chucked a bag of trash onto his stoop. Dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a padded denim jacket, with a pair of Tevo sandals on his feet, he tugged the door shut behind him as he stepped outside. The cold pierced his open jacket and cut through the thin T-shirt he wore underneath. Tugging his hood up over his disheveled hair, he ran a quick hand down his unshaven cheeks and drew in a deep breath. The brisk night air chilled his lungs. “Damn,” he muttered to no one in particular as he clapped his hands together for warmth. Fortunately the Dumpster wasn’t too far away. He hefted the trash bag in one hand and stepped off the stoop. He had barely made it to the end of his walkway when he first saw the stray cat. It was a large beast, bigger than a domestic cat had a right to be, which made Dale think it wasn’t much of a stray after all. One of his neighbors must own it and, instead of taking it inside where it belonged, let it roam the apartment complex freely. So that explained the dusty paw prints he sometimes found on the hood of his Mazda RX-8. He should call the management office about that. The cat hunched at the fence separating the apartments from a row of residential homes on the other side of the block. Draped in shadow, the cat’s eyes reflected the security light shining above Dale’s door, and it was the two pinpoints of bright yellow staring at him he noticed first. Like Alice’s Cheshire cat, the outline filled in once he realized what he was seeing—bulky shoulders, ragged fur, the hint of more hidden in the darkness. Dale made a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat as he neared the end of the walkway and the cat didn’t move. When he was close enough, he called out, “Get.” Those large, pale eyes didn’t even blink. Pulling his jacket closed at the throat, Dale hunched into its warmth and watched the feline from the corner of his vision as he passed it by. It didn’t move, didn’t make a sound, but its amber gaze followed his every step. “Stupid cat,” he mumbled, switching the trash bag from one hand to the other. “Stay off my f*****g car, you hear?” Though no one was around to hear him, he felt foolish talking to a dumb animal. Fortunately the Dumpster was just ahead, and in the overhead lights from the parking lot, he could see one of the top lids had been thrown back, making it easy for him to swing his bag into the receptacle. Good thing, too—it was freezing out here, and his toes were going numb. He really should put the Tevos away in the wintertime so he didn’t grab them to run outside. Sure, he was just taking out the trash, but he could have at least put on a pair of socks, no matter how ugly that looked. Who would see him? Once the trash was in the bin, he shoved both hands deep into his pockets and hunched into himself as he hurried back to his apartment. Head down, he didn’t bother looking at the cat again, but in his mind, he was already on the phone leaving a message for the management office. People with pets should keep them inside, where they wouldn’t scuff up the expensive paint job on his sports car… Halfway up his walk, he stopped in mid-step and stared at the large, fat, orange and white tabby cat now sitting on his stoop. Blocking his door. Fuck. “Shoo,” he tried. The cat blinked at him as if amused. He tried again. “Get off, you. Get.” No luck. The cat sank down on all fours, watching him, as if it could hear the sudden pounding of his heart. Had he mentioned he wasn’t a cat person? They set him on edge—they were too fast, too stealthy, too unpredictable. “Come on,” he pleaded, taking a step nearer. The cat’s ears swiveled, but otherwise, it didn’t move. In his sandals, he didn’t dare get too close. He could only imagine how those sharp little claws would feel sinking into the exposed skin on the top of his foot. Why hadn’t he stopped to slip on his sneakers? Another step, a third, then mercifully, the cat stretched its tail in the air and jumped down off his stoop. Before it could change its mind, Dale hurriedly crossed the few yards separating him from his home. The door wasn’t locked—he twisted the knob, pushed open the door, and felt the revolting press of a small body against his lower leg as he stepped inside. Even as he closed the door behind him, he knew the cat had snuck in. Sure enough, it strode across his kitchen floor, tail in the air like a question mark as it darted under the table. “God damn it!” he swore. Snagging the door again, he jerked it open and pointed at the cold night. “Out.” The cat, safe under the table, sank to its haunches and began to lick one of its front paws. Its eyes shut as a contented purr filled the kitchen. “Out!” Dale rattled the door knob and stamped his foot. “Get out! This is my house. Out!” It didn’t work. Slamming the door shut, he snatched up his cell phone from where it sat on his counter and pushed the SEND button twice to redial the last number he’d called. The phone rang as he glared at the cat. The damn thing refused to look at him. “You fucker,” he spat. In his ear, a woman’s bored voice drawled, “Same to you, asshole.” “Jill, God.” Relief flooded Dale at the sound of her voice. Thank God she usually stayed up late—the tattoo parlor where Jillian Murphy worked didn’t open until noon, so a phone call at midnight wasn’t likely to wake her. “Get down here already. You will not believe this.” Faking a yawn, Jill asked, “Why is it the only booty calls I get any more are from my gay BFF?” Dale stared at the cat as if afraid it would attack, but it was too busy washing its face now to pay him any attention. “Girl, you know it ain’t like that.” Jill’s throaty laugh filled his ear. “What, we aren’t BFF?” “I don’t want your booty,” Dale replied. “At least, not the way you wish. Now get it down here, pronto. I need your help.” “Again,” Jill sighed. “What is it, another spider? I saved your ass from the last one.” Before he could reply, the phone went dead in his ear. He tossed it onto the counter, sure she was on her way. Jill lived in the townhouse three down from his, and sure enough, within seconds he heard a door slam outside. Soon he picked up the sound of slippers shuffling on the sidewalk, then a rapid knock hammered on his kitchen door. As he reached for the knob, it turned and the door opened, spilling Jill into the apartment. Bleached curls tumbled atop her head, but her blonde bangs were smoothed down across her forehead and held in place with a small, silver barrette. Her heart-shaped face had a freshly scrubbed look, but even without her usual Goth make-up, she was a pretty girl. Her cheeks were pinked from the cold, her lips damp with Chapstick, and the hoop she frequently wore in her nose had been replaced with a tiny stud for the night. Black liner still edged her eyes where she hadn’t quite managed to remove it all. It gave her a wide-eyed, frightened appearance, accented by the oversized bomber jacket in which she snuggled. “Well?” she snapped, hugging herself to get warm. Below the jacket, her legs were covered in gray tights, and she wore black, Mary Jane-style slippers on her feet. “What’s so damn important you had to drag me out of bed at this hour?” “Like you were asleep,” Dale replied, but seeing her made his heart stop its crazy patter. “Thank God you’re here.” Darkly, she warned, “I could’ve been in the middle of something. Or someone.” Dale rolled his eyes. “As if. You would’ve texted me the moment you knew you were getting laid. Don’t try telling me otherwise.” “Dale,” Jill warned. She patted a hand over the top of her curls as if checking to make sure they were all in place. “What’s this all about? Your DVD player cut out again in the middle of a raunchy s*x scene?” In response, Dale pointed at the table. Or rather, under it. Jill followed his finger and frowned. “What?” He shook his hand, adamant. “Look.” “I’m looking…” She ducked a little, frowning, but he knew the moment she saw the cat because she squealed, a sound not unlike the one his door had made when he opened it. “When did you get a cat?” Dale sighed heavily. “I didn’t.” Jill knelt on the floor, already crawling under the table. In a high, sing-song voice, she cooed, “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.” Then, in her normal, crass tone, she told Dale, “I didn’t think you liked them.” “I don’t.” Dale stepped back against the door—if the feline decided to bolt, he wanted to be as far away from it as possible. “It came in when I took out the trash.” “You should’ve closed the door,” Jill said. Dale growled but didn’t trust himself to answer. When he did speak, he simply asked, “Can you take it back outside?” Jill had cats, two older felines she doted on as if they were children. They were the reason Dale rarely visited her apartment—between the stench of their fishy, wet food and the powdery smell of their litter box, he thought they stunk up the place. Not to mention the way they sat on the coffee table or the counter top and stared at him. Who let animals climb onto surfaces where people ate? “Your food goes there,” he tried telling her once as she cuddled with one of her cats as it rested on the kitchen table. “He’s sitting where you eat.” “I eat around him,” she had replied. “What about his hair?” Dale asked. “It gets in your food.” But Jill scoffed. “It can’t kill you.” Under his breath, Dale replied, “It can if you choke on it.” This evening, though, Dale thanked the Lord Jill had the makings of a crazy cat lady in her, because she was on her knees under the table petting that damn beast and it lapped up her attentions. “Whose kitty are you?” she asked in babbling baby-talk. “You’re a good kitty, aren’t you? Such a good kitty. What are you doing visiting this mean drama queen? Why’d you bother coming in here?” “Are you waiting for an answer?” Dale asked. “Or can you just take it outside already?” “See?” she asked the cat as she stroked its fur. “He’s such a dickhead, that’s why he lives all by himself. You don’t want to stay in here with him.” Dale let out a loud, aggravated sigh. “Jill.” Switching from that baby voice to her usual tone, she asked, “Did you know orange isn’t a naturally occurring color in cats? Humans bred it into them thousands of years ago. If you think about it—” “I don’t want to,” Dale warned. “Just take it outside.” With a dirty look over her shoulder, she replied, “I should leave it here just to spite you, but I wouldn’t want to traumatize the poor cat.” “No, no,” Dale agreed. “Think of the cat.” Jill sat back and wrapped her arms around the feline, lifting it into her lap. “Ugh, you’re a big boy. Jeez, how much do you weigh? Who’s been feeding you?” Dale grimaced as he watched her wrestle to stand with the cat. “All the cans of cat food you throw away, it probably eats right out of the Dumpster.” “He belongs to someone,” she said as she pushed up off the floor. The purring stopped as she stood, the cat in her arms. “A fat cat like this? Someone cares for it.” “Not me. Toss it out.” To emphasize his point, Dale opened the door. “No offense, but I’m slamming this shut the moment you’re outside. I don’t want to take the chance of it coming back in again.” Jill leaned toward him and grinned when Dale backed away from the cat she held. “No offense, but you’re a wuss. Who’s afraid of cats?” “I’m not afraid,” he said, unconvincingly. “I just don’t like them.” “Then I can’t imagine why this one likes you.” Jill pressed her face against the fur at the cat’s neck and smiled at Dale. Maybe it was the way she held the feline, but it, too, seemed to be smiling at him. Those large golden eyes stared at him, unblinking, as if sizing him up. Looking for a good place to sink those fangs into my skin, Dale thought with a shudder. Waving one hand at the door, he told Jill, “Go.” “Gone,” she said. “And you’re welcome.” He waited until the door was shut against both her and the cat before answering. In the now empty apartment, he breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks.”