Elise
You know how spinsters become cat ladies when they lose all hope in life after being burned time and time again by horrible, stupid men that squeezed their hearts ‘til it popped in their fists? Don’t linger on the gruesome images. Point was, I had become one.
But first I became friends with a homeless druggie. I know, I know. I had lost my mind.
On the weekends just before I went to work at the paintball field, I started taking walks in the mornings along the lake. The water reminded me of a good place in my life. It brought me closer to Dad and the memories of teaching Aston to swim in the water.
Before I found Tuck hidden in a bush, I talked to this homeless dude named Ray. He’d sit on the boardwalk and throw bread at the birds, and I stopped once and said, “You know there’s a sign that says you can’t do that, right?”
“Where?” he asked, all stoned-out from the blunt in his hand.
“Right next to you.” I pointed to the sign two feet from him that had acted as a wind shield for him and read:
DO NOT FEED BIRDS OR PIGEONS. Because pigeons didn’t fall under the bird category, I guess? The sign must have been made on a Friday.
Feeding of pigeons or birds creates artificially high populations that cannot be supported by the natural habitat. DO NOT FEED BIRDS OR PIGEONS!
Ray looked at the sign and then back at me. He didn’t read it. “You going to do something about it?”
“No.”
He turned back, offended by my presence, and resumed feeding the pigeons and birds stale bread. I left him alone after that first day, but every weekend I’d return and he was there, throwing bread either at the water for the ducks, or at the beach for the pigeons/birds. I showed up after the fourth time with a bag of bread from my house. I gave it to him and went to leave when he said, “You can feed them that, if you want.”
I glanced around at the few elderly people walking by, staring at us with strange expressions. For the first time ever, it didn’t bother me in the slightest. I sat down next to Ray and I threw the ducks bread, totally in denial about how bad it probably was for their health. Was duck killer worse than brother-fucker? I hesitated on that thought and decided to put the bread aside. When I left him that day, I googled it and replaced bread with oats from my cupboard. Oats always died in my pantry, like bananas.
I learned a bit about Ray. We weren’t talkers though, so my info was limited. He was only twenty-three and had black curly hair and scruffy cheeks. He was a drug head. I wasn’t stereotyping that shit; he’d told me himself once: “I gotta go buy some coke. Feed the birds my bread for me, will you?”
I’d nodded and he’d left. When he came back, he was high off his ass and smoking a cigarette. He had the nerve to ask me if I could spare him some coin.
“No, Ray,” I hissed, “I will not spare you some coin. Get clean.”
“Fuck you, Eldorado.”
“It’s Elise.”
“Whatever.”
I rolled my eyes. “That shit is going to kill you.”
“Good.”
I was a little startled by his tone. He honestly didn’t seem to care. “What do you mean good? Do you want to die?”
“Nobody would care.”
“Don’t you have family?”
“My crew are my family.”
“Are the people in your crew homeless too?”
“Yep.”
I pursed my lips. “What about your real family? What happened to them?”
“I got abused, so I ran away from him.” Him. My heart hurt for my druggie homeless friend who liked to feed pigeons stale bread. He’d answered it so matter-of-fact. Nothing more, nothing else. It was kind of the perfect answer.
“Sorry to hear that,” I muttered.
He shrugged. “What’s your story?”
“I fucked my brother.”
“Nice.”
“He wasn’t my real brother.”
“I’m not judging.”
I cracked a smile as he pulled a funny face. “Everyone talks about me. My father died and I kind of lost my shit. Aston – my adopted brother – took off on me.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry about your old man.”
“Thanks.”
That was the end of that conversation. It was the most we’d ever talked. I left him sometime later when I discovered I was late for work. I was walking down the beach when I saw something black scurry into a bush. I thought it was a rabbit at first. For some reason, I walked to the small bush and stood there for several moments.
“Hello?” I asked, which was stupid. Was I expecting this bunny to say hello back?
To my surprise, the black furry animal emerged from the bush and rubbed against my leg. Its furry ball of a head looked up at me and went, “meow.” It was love at first meow. I knelt down and patted the furry head. The cat was tiny, a kitten judging by its size, and all bones. I could feel the spine as I slid my hand from head to bum.
“You’re a stray,” I muttered, looking at its collarless neck.
I looked around, wondering what I should do in this situation. This wasn’t the first stray I’d seen. I’d always just walked right past them, these tiny little creatures that were all fending for themselves. When she nudged against my leg again and purred under my palm, I knew what she was asking for. Scraps of food. I wanted to give her more than scraps of food, though.
I gathered her in my arms and walked back home with her. Then I called in sick to work, hopped a bus to the nearest vet, and sank a healthy chunk of my savings into her.
Her was actually him, and he was nine weeks old and severely underweight. He got his shots done and we scheduled a date to get him neutered (God, that word sounded offensive).
After that, I bought a crate, a litter box, litter, food, and a scratching post. Another hit to my unhealthy savings account. When I got home, I gave him a soft blanket and he crashed after a giant bowl of food.
*
I decided on the name the next day. I skipped school to spend time with my new furry friend. I’d just given him a bath, and it was surprisingly easy. He ducked his head under the running water with his mouth wide open. It was the strangest thing. I thought cats hated water. After he stopped smelling like a trashcan, I wrapped him up in a towel and was carrying him downstairs when the doorbell rang.
I opened the door, half of me soaking wet, and stared at two old people holding a bible to their chest. They smiled widely at me, but they had knowing eyes. They knew who I was, and I wondered if they were sent by Becky who, incidentally, was watering her garden next door within view and peering at us.
“Hello!” the woman with the bible and crazy hair cheered. “Awww, look at your wittle furry friend all tucked under your arm! Awww, isn’t that sweet, Howard?”
Howard was staring at my chest, but he made a grunting sound. Meanwhile, I twisted my body to the side, shielding my poor little dude from the word “wittle”.
“You guys want anything?” I asked, warily.
“We wanted to give you this booklet,” the woman returned, handing me it. Jesus was on the front, all blue-eyes and blond hair (riiight), and on the top read, “DO YOU NEED TO BE SAVED?”
I stared at the booklet for a moment. “Uh, wow, thanks. I’ll check it out later.”
“Please do,” the woman went on. “It’s never too late to be saved until it’s too late.”
I blinked. “Mmkay.”
“Do you want us to go over some verses with you while your little angel is tucked under your arm? She looks sleepy.”
I frowned, insulted even. “He.” Jeesh, I was already overprotective of him. How sad.
“And no,” I added. “I’m kind of really busy right now. I’ll be saved later.”
Before they could respond, I slammed the door shut and threw the booklet on the entrance stand. Then I went into the living room, my little dude still tucked under my arm, and knelt down beside the scratching post. I let him roam. He walked straight past the scratching post and dug his claws into the black leather couch. “No!” I yelped. “Not there!” I picked him up and settled him on the top of the post. He jumped back down and ate the leaves on the fake plant a few feet away. Fucking hell, I got up again and turned him away. This shit was hard. He was so dumb.
I rested back on the rug and watched him destroy the room. He clawed at the leather couch again, but I just went “meh” and let him. Eventually, he moved over to me and stepped on me, like I was some freaking doormat. Was this normal? He balanced himself on my breasts and nudged his wet nose against mine. I heard him purr and laughed as he then proceeded to knead my neck.
“Ouch!” I hissed, jumping beneath him. He lost balance and crashed to the floor. I apologized profusely, and he stood back up, shook his head clear again, and wandered around once more. He was surprisingly chill. A cat that liked water, liked to be tucked under my arm, quick to bounce back from landing on his head. Most of all, he came back to me and tucked himself under my armpit and fell asleep.
“You’re like me,” I told him.
I called him Tuck because…well, he loved to be tucked into my side every night.
But fuck he was expensive. 400 dollars went poof in a day.
*
Tuck got my mind off things. He was the perfect man. He gave me love when I was alone and drinking wine straight from the bottle. He watched Sherlock with me and listened to my tales of how fucking sexy Benedict Cumberbatch was. “Do you want me to have his babies?” I asked Tuck. He purred and head butted me. “Thanks. I think you’re freaking awesome too.”
I let him out on walks with me, and he never went far. I could have put him on a lead if I wanted to, but I didn’t like the idea I’d be tugging his neck around. He woke me up in the mornings when it was time to go to school and the alarm was pissing him off. He protected me from branches that hit my window in the middle of the night by growling and smacking at the window.
He also caught birds and dumped their carcasses at my feet. It was the sweetest thing. I’d never go hungry again if carcasses were appetising. I doted on him. I got him toys and those ridiculously overpriced premium foods with the words “organic” and “sea breeze” on the front. I considered getting him a friend to play with, but he was extremely territorial and the sight of another cat had him clawing at the screen windows. I had to get Adrian to replace three in one month.
“Does your mother know about Tuck?” he asked me as he fitted the screens in.
“Maybe,” I answered without care. “She hasn’t said anything.” She never said anything at all.
He didn’t seem happy about that, but he kept his mouth shut and bent down to stroke Tuck. Tuck hissed and hit at his hand.
Oh, he also didn’t like strangers.
I’d gone from being that social butterfly to loving my solitude. Before I couldn’t go days without talking to someone. Now, I would happily go weeks so long as I was buried in a book or watching Star Wars.
Who was I?
I didn’t know, but I was beginning to like her a bit.
It was a shame she came and went.