Page 17 of The Minotaur's Valentine

People who don’t have experience with big cats or big cat crossbreeds, I guess.

He’s already rejected two foster families?

Geez, I love my boss, but I think he has a few wacky spots. Like the way he speaks sometimes. (Not that I should have been listening in.)

Oh, well. I have my own “wacky spots.” I think that’s why we get along so well.

Peterson returns. “Libby... you know, cats are quite curious in their reproductive habits. Have you heard of superfecundity?”

The word is not one I use every day, but it zooms back from the recesses of my mind (from Small Mammal Reproduction, Pregnancy, and Birth, a third-year course at Antonia’s vet tech program, to be exact). “Some mammals have it, even humans in rare cases. When a female is in heat and releases multiple ova, they can be fertilized by the sperm of multiple male partners. It’s more common in stray cats and ferals because they live without human supervision and can mate with any tom who comes their way during their fertile period.” I look at the kittens. In the light of the office, as opposed to the dark, wintery forest, I can see all of them are the same jet black with short, thick tails and big paws. But they don’t look like they’re part bobcat.

“Right you are. Libby, these cats... are more suited to the outdoor life. However, two of the litter were rejected. I believe they’re from another father. That may be why the mother rejected them.”

That makes no sense. This isn’t a daytime soap. Mother cats don’t reject babies because of Baby Daddy drama.

“I know you want a kitten from this litter you helped rescue. I need to examine them one more time, and then I think you’ll get your wish.”

“Two more? Where?” I look at the other cages in the kennel area.

“Oh, not here, my dear. They needed some extra TLC. They’re in very good hands, compassionate, strong hands.” Peterson nods to himself.

“When can I get them?”

“Well, Milo might want to keep one for himself. I’ll stop over there on my lunch break and let you know.”

“Why doesn’t he just come here?” I ask, pettily annoyed that the kittens won’t be coming in where I can claim one and start nuzzling it.

“Milo works nights at the Night Market and he sleeps odd hours. I don’t want to drag him out here when his place isn’t out of my way. I have to go to Onyx Farm and see about a cow with mastitis just past the edge of town.” The phone rang again. “I’ll get that.” Doc walks off, singing in an off-key warble, “It’s a bovine kinda day... What a bovine day in the neighborhood, it’s a bovine day in the neighborhood, when bovines are your neighbors.”

See? Wacky.

Well, he can run out to see Milo and his foster kittens on his lunch break. I know what I’ll be doing on mine. I’m going to get kitten supplies at the pet store!

Chapter Eighteen: Milo

First, pretend you have hands the size of hubcaps. Okay, maybe a little smaller.

Then, pretend you’re using hot metal and foot-long tweezers to form enchanted metal into a sexual-energy storage unit on a dainty platinum chain as a special order for a vampire and his semi-succubus missus. (The mind boggles, doesn’t it?)

Now, pretend that you have to do all of this with a sleeping kitten on each shoulder, with a dozen or so teensy-beensy claws shredding your oldest, most beat up Iron Maiden sweatshirt.

I’m a dad.

I’m a kitten-dad, but I’m already in love with these two helpless little clouds of gray fluff. They turned out to be some long-haired fancy fellas, and they obviously think I’m their parent. They try to nurse on my ears (which hurts!) and sleep on me, purring like miniature buzzsaws. One tried climbing my horns and much dad-cursing happened. You know. Phrases like, “Good-gosh-darn-son-of-Randy-Rhoads!”

I find myself saying things like “Now, this is called smelting. Can you say smelt? Smelt is also a fish. Would Daddy’s iddle-widdle boys like some fish after their milk? Daddy has tuna num-nums!”

It’s embarrassing.

But it doesn’t stop me.

“Felix! Freddy! No, no! Don’t touch, that’s hot!” I yank the curious little paws away from the still-hot tip of my soldering iron and put them in the deep, slouchy pockets of my leather metalworking apron.

They crawl out ten seconds later.

“You know, you’re a natural. I heard the preschool is hiring.”

I whirl, hand flying to my thudding chest. “Doc!”

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