Page 9 of Catnip, Claws, and Chaos

Her answer blindsides me and, frankly, pisses me off. I offered her a job, and she refused. Fucking unbelievable. “Fine, your choice. That doesn’t change the fact that I need your information. And this cat is going home with you.”

“Please, I really can’t take her.”

“Why not?”

“I’m terrible with animals. They hate me,” she insists, panic edging into her voice. “Plus, my landlord would flip.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Most buildings in Manhattan allow pets.”

“Mine doesn’t,” she responds too quickly. “And even if he did, I can’t afford a cat. I can barely feed myself.”

I study her then, really study her. The worn uniform, the scuffed shoes, and the shadows under her eyes speak of more than just tonight’s accident. She’s struggling. That much is obvious.

And I’m a jerk, I know it.

“Let me check something.” I sigh and walk to my office. I pull up the shelter contact list on my computer.

Three calls later, my suspicions are confirmed.

“The shelters are all at capacity,” I announce, returning to the exam room. “Two have euthanasia policies for unadoptable animals.”

That’s not an exaggeration. Black cats, especially adults with attitude problems, are among the least adoptable. This one would likely never make it out alive. Just another throwaway life.

Emily’s face pales. “What about... I don’t know... Can’t you keep her here?”

I gesture around the clinic. “We’re not equipped for long-term housing.”

“What about your home?” she tries, desperation creeping in.

“I already have Bob, my dog, who doesn’t play well with others.” That’s not entirely true. Bob is quite gentle, but it’s like I can’t help myself. Maybe I only need a reason to see her again. Fuck!

Emily chews her lower lip, and I find myself staring at her mouth longer than appropriate. She’s backed into a corner, and we both know it.

“Look,” I say, softening my tone. “I’ll help. I can provide supplies and basic care. Just take her until we find something better.”

“I don’t even know how to take care of a cat,” she protests, but her resolve is weakening like ice in spring.

“Feed her, give her water. That’s it.” I don’t mention the constant vigilance, the way pets embed themselves in your life until you can’t imagine existence without them.

She looks at the carrier again, where two yellow eyes stare back. “I don’t think she likes me.”

“She doesn’t like anyone yet,” I counter. “She’s scared.”

Emily sighs deeply, her shoulders slumping in resignation. “Fine. Just until you find somewhere else for her.”

Relief floods through me, though I mask it. “I’ll need your contact information. For the cat’s records.”

“My financial situation is...complicated right now. I can’t pay for all this.”

“We’ll figure something out,” I hear myself saying, surprising us both.

She looks up, eyes wide. “Really?”

“Really.” I pause. “Let me get you some supplies.”

I gather premium cat food, and basic supplies from our retail section. While I assemble everything, my mind races with self-accusation. This is unlike me. I don’t get involved. I maintain professional distance like religion. Yet something about Emily’s vulnerability mixed with her bizarre courage hooks into me. Or it’s just my body responding to her physical presence. Either way, I’m crossing lines I established years ago.

When I return, she’s tentatively poking a finger through the carrier grate. The cat hasn’t bitten it off, which seems promising.

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