Page 19 of Voice to Raise
The sound vibrated down my arm and into my chest—or so it felt. Calm enveloped me—or that’s what I told myself.
Moses had been discovered next to his dead mother and three siblings in an abandoned lot. No way should he have made it. Hence the rescue agency naming him Moses and nursing him back to health.
I’d read about the biblical Moses and couldn’t find the thread between that and this guy’s impossible odds survival, but whatever. He was ten weeks old when he was finally healthy enough to be adopted.
Happenstance.
Pike’s memorial service had been on a Thursday and I went into the animal-rescue shelter on a Friday, and Moses had come home with me on a Saturday. From death to resurrection in three days.
Because I had no doubt Pike lived and breathed in this demon cat I’d rescued.
I’d been led to believe he was quiet, unassuming, and loved snuggles.
Right.
Nope.
He was destructive, mouthy, and had massive attitude.
Also, with him being my first cat, I couldn’t tell if I’d been hoodwinked by the rescue shelter or if he’d hoodwinked them. Somehow, this demonic force wasn’t the bill of goods I’d been sold.
And yet I’d never considered returning him.
Even when he peed on my favorite shoes the morning of an important conference.
He’d been neutered, of course. But that didn’t stop him from randomly peeing on things—usually when he felt neglected. Which meant I spent an inordinate amount of time trying to ensure he didn’t feel neglected.
I’d even watched videos of this woman who had trained her cat to talk.
Well, the cat had fifty buttons to push expressing different things—from objects to emotions and everything in between. The lady’s catspoketo her. No question. I watched those videos, and I saw a cat who understood how to express her needs.
My cat liked to chase laser pointers and dig up potted plants.
The ten buttons I’d bought for him to attempt communication with me were mothballed in my closet.
“You want food?”
He just blinked at me. As if saying,duh. I always want food. What a stupid question.No matter how much I fed him, he never put on weight. He was still scrappy and scrawny. The vet assured me that he was perfectly healthy and I didn’t need to worry. I trusted her. I also wanted a substantive cat who didn’t look like a breath of wind might knock him over. When guests came to visit, I always found myself explaining about his history—lest people think I was starving him.
I gazed at the clock radio.
Six-thirty.
I tested my head.
Not great.
Not bad.
Just…not great.
I closed my eyes for a moment.
Wait…six-thirty in the morning or evening?
I replayed what I could remember.
Malik.
