Page 66 of Quiet Beautiful Things

“Come on,” I say and sign.

Maisy still seems excited.

Inside, I introduce myself to the worker behind the counter. “I’m Blake Montana. This is my daughter, Maisy, and this is Ellie. They’re both deaf. We’d like to adopt a cat for Maisy.”

“Awesome,” the teen worker says. He shoves a clipboard my way. “Fill these out then I’ll take you back. All the cats have been fixed and vaccinated. You’ll just pay an adoption fee, and, if you want, you can also leave a donation.” He looks embarrassed to have said it. Then he adds, “Sorry, my boss makes us say that.”

“Not a problem. And I’d be happy to make a donation.”

I hastily fill out the paperwork knowing Maisy is restless and wondering what we’re doing here.

Once done, the teen motions to a side door. “Come through there.”

As soon as we’re through the door, I hear barking. Instinctively, I look to Maisy to see her reaction, then I scold myself for it.

“The dogs are all out there,” he says, pointing to another door. “Cats are this way.”

We follow him past a row of offices. Then, as we pass some half-height walls that enclose individual pens, Maisy catches a glimpse of a family sitting inside one, where a young boy isplaying with a large fluffy cat. She stops in her tracks and rests her chin atop the wall, staring. I don’t know if she’s ever seen a live cat before. We saw some dogs in the park. She even got to pet one. But she didn’t seem half as excited as she is now.

I look at the size of the cat and ask the worker, “Do you have any kittens?”

“Not really. By the time people decide they don’t want them, they’re usually grown.”

“Okay, well, let’s go see what you’ve got.”

He opens a door. Inside is wire cage after wire cage, each small enclosure housing an individual cat. There must be at least thirty of them. He gestures to the laminated sign attached to the front of the first one. “You can see how old they are and what breed. If our vets could tell, that is. Sometimes it’s just an estimate. If there’s a red mark on the sign it means the animal is aggressive.” He looks at Maisy. “Best not let her near those.”

The guy tends to mumble and is making zero attempts at facing Ellie as he speaks, so I text her what we’re talking about to keep her in the loop.

I point to a date on the sign. “Is this the birth date?”

“That’s the date we acquired them. It lets us know how long each has been here so we can, you know, keep track.”

He shifts uncomfortably. I did my research. There are very few no-kill shelters anymore. There are just too many abandoned animals.

“How long can you keep them, before… you know.”

“As long as we have space.” He shrugs and looks behind him like he’s not supposed to talk about it. “But we run out of space a lot. Over seventy percent of cats that enter shelters are never adopted.”

Ah, shit. I glance around at the eclectic array of cats. Fat and thin. Fluffy and hairless. Skittish and friendly. And most of them will probably be euthanized in a matter of weeks.

I want to look at all the acquisition dates and try to steer Maisy to the next one on the bubble, but I don’t. I want her to pick the one she wants.

Maisy is stunned. She blinks, mouth agape, and looks from side to side at all the different cats. She leans over and sticks a finger through a cage to touch one. Thankfully, it’s not one with a red mark on the sign. She looks up at me. I motion around to all the cages, not knowing if she has any idea I’m asking her which one she wants.

Ellie and I keep a close eye as Maisy goes to each cage, assesses the cat inside, leaning occasionally to put her fingers in. Some of the cats come close, wanting the attention, while some shy away and head for the far corner.

When we come upon one of the aggressive cats, I point to the red mark and shake my head, guiding Maisy to the next cat. She understands and skips the next cage she sees with the red mark.

Some cats get more attention from her than others. I make a mental note of which ones.

The worker follows behind. “If you want to take one out and see how they get along, I can put you in a playroom.”

“Sure,” I say. “Just give her a few minutes to look at all of them.”

At the end of the first row, Maisy falls to her knees in front of a cage with a kitten. I turn to the worker. “I thought you said you didn’t have kittens.”

“Yeah. I forgot about this one. You won’t want him, though. He has a, gen, uh, genital defect.”

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