Page 3 of Pack Scratch Fever
Also, Kyle smells like gouda cheese and fertilizer to me, but that’s not very polite to say.
He’s not the amazing man Mari makes out her nephew to be. He’s hit on both Blair and me numerous times, always lingering at the front counter, but never offering anything of substance to say.
And he stares at my chest way too much.
Mari drums her fingers on the counter, still staring at me as if she can see right through me. As if she has some wisdom I’ll never possess about life.
“You girls are too sweet to not have anyone,” she says, still looking at me. “And you’re only getting older.”
“Ouch,” Blair replies.
“Oh, you know what I mean!” Mari waves her hand. “I just don’t want you to end up an old lonely cat lady, like me.”
Her gaze softens, and I frown. “Mari, don’t say that. You’re not alone.”
“Also, cat lady isn’t an insult,” Blair pipes up. “It just shows you have a big heart.”
Mari’s eyes turn glassy, and Alvin rubs his cheek against her hand. “I know,” she says with a soft smile, staring down at the feline. “Still, I want to watch out for you girls.”
I want to say we’re hardlygirlsanymore, but the wistful look in Mari’s eyes makes me stop.
Mari has lived alone for a long time—she’s made that abundantly clear when she overshares with us. She’s an Omega, but she’s never mentioned an Alpha before, which has always surprised me.
It’s not really my business, but…I don’t want to end up like her.
I ignore the thought.
I have the rescue, and that’s what’s important.
I’ve got tiny, fanged mouths to feed, and fur that needs to be brushed every day.
Mari says goodbye to us, but her statement doesn’t leave my mind.
I just don’t want you to end up an old lonely cat lady like me.
“Your hisses don’t impressme anymore, you know that, right?” I mutter to Mister Whiskers. I place the food bowl in his open kennel, and he watches me with squinty, defensive yellow eyes. A low growl of irritation sounds in his throat until I back away enough for him to sniff his bowl.
Our rescue is set up in a way that the open cat playroom is accessible to all the cats at any time, but another door leads to a set of kennels that the cats can either be fed in or rest in, along with numerous litter boxes.
Mister Whiskers is a loner who prefers to stay in his kennel most of the time. He’s a big boy with mitts for paws, gorgeous long grey fur, and an angular face that looks like he’s permanently scowling. Occasionally, he’ll come through the flap of the cat door that separates the playroom from the kennels, but most of the time he’s in his private space, napping or observing with judging eyes.
He’s been adopted out before, but returned to us three times due to behavioral issues.
Whoever takes home the grumpy old man has to be a perfect fit for him, and I’m not sure if that will ever happen.
So, worst case, his permanent home is at Furs and Purrs Rescue, stuck with Blair, the volunteers, and me for the rest of his life.
At least hetoleratesus.
We even had a cat psychologist offer to come out and evaluate him after a video edit of him went viral.
They had the same conclusion we did—he’s just a grumpy asshole.
He even growls when he feasts, and I watch as he gobbles up his kibble like he’s never eaten a day in his life.
“You’re welcome to join the others, you know,” I say, and he flicks yellow eyes up at me for a moment before returning to his food.
“Talking to cats now?” Blair asks as I enter the playroom. There’s a family visiting, a mated Alpha and Omega with their small child, who engages happily with a pair of black kittens.
