Not That Kind of Cat Lady

by Heather J. Frederick

Part 1 appears in this issue.

conclusion

She didn’t have cat sweaters or cat aprons or cute little matching bits of cat jewelry. She didn’t have a single feline-shaped ceramic or wooden object. He may have entered her life by magic, but she had no illusions: he’d stayed through convenience. She’d kept feeding him because she was a nice person; that didn’t make her a cat person.

The dog park was empty. There was no one hiding under the bench or up the tree, where buds were just beginning to form in this primeval soup of a day that held no other hint of a thawing world. There was nothing else to see, because the rain was coming down in sheets, battering the pavement, splashing the mud, roaring like a blender on high and whipping drops against her cheeks and hands like unruly cake batter from the devil’s own kitchen. It was pointless to keep looking, but she couldn’t face going home to the empty house and the full bowl. The worst part, even worse than a story like his coming to an end, would be thinking that it ended alone and miserable.

Just like she was.

Mom’s right. I need a life.

“Sorry, ma’am!”

“Aaaaaargh!” She’d turned so fast she didn’t see him. He was tall enough to be eye-height with the spokes of the umbrella, perfectly awkward since he didn’t have one of his own. She stepped back. Underneath his hood and dripping hat brim were friendly eyes and a bushy beard. She didn’t like men with beards, but she liked that he was still smiling, even after the scream.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t see you. The rain—”

“I know, it’s ridiculous, right? What are we doing here? I mean, not that it’s any of my business what you’re doing here. I didn’t mean to scare you.” This from a man she’d nearly impaled.

“It’s all right. I’m looking for my cat. Kind of my cat.” A hasty confession to a total stranger, combined with the utter hubris of claiming any semblance of ownership over such an independent beast. If he’d wanted to be hers, he’d have let her know long ago.

“As fate would have it, I’m looking for my dog. I took him out this morning, but he ran off. Who knows, maybe chasing your cat! Maybe we can look together? I’m Marshall.” His baritone voice sounded like 90% dark organic chocolate. She really needed to broaden her similes.

“I’m Jerri. But it’s just” — a shrug tilted the umbrella, dumping a deluge onto his boots — “Sorry! It’s just, I have this horrible feeling he’s not coming back, you know? But I’d be happy to help you look for your dog! I’ve gotten really good at walking around the block and calling out like an idiot. What does he look like?” This was why there hadn’t been any dates since Henry.

Oddly, Marshall was still smiling. They decided to go up the canal, even though she knew perfectly well cats hated water, but what was the difference? In for a bucket, in for an ocean on a day like today. Somehow they found a way to share the umbrella without walking too close, because that would have been even weirder than strangers banding together to look for lost pets.

All the way downtown, through Canalside Park, then Marshall suggested the brew pub for lunch, and she realized she was starving.

“Inside or out?” the host asked reflexively, then shook his head. “Sorry, how about the bar?”

“Out?” Marshall turned to her. The covered patio was empty, and it looked like the table next to the door was possibly drier than the restaurant’s interior, packed with bodies and dripping coats. She could almost see steam coming off of them.

“Why not? It’s not like we can get any wetter.” And was there not the smallest bit of pride that they had both dressed in appropriate layers for the miserable day? But it was more that going inside would break the spell. Out here, with him, she had almost forgotten what she was looking for, or even that she was looking. For the span of a burger and chips, that was okay.

Marshall worked for Home Depot. By dessert she’d figured out that he’d retired three years ago after selling a construction company and “worked” for Home Depot the same way ex-presidents “worked” at playing golf. She confessed that she was working on her second cookbook, keeping aside that she’d been stalled for months. He immediately took out his phone and ordered her first one — “The Single Lady’s Kitchen” — on line.

Even though it had obviously become something more than a search for lost animals, neither wanted to ruin it when they returned to the dog park by doing something so obvious as asking for a phone number. Or that was her internal narrative when he said, “I had a great time today. Thanks for helping me look for Bourdain,” gave a little wave, and walked away.

Oh. So that’s okay.

They weren’t tears, they were warm rain drops. Stinging her eyes. Flooding her cheeks. Drowning her nose. Dammit! What was the point? There was no one to see her. She sobbed all the way home.

Box macaroni and cheese for dinner. The tuna was covered in ants, so she plopped down a can of wet food because if he was really hungry, he’d eat it. How many years had she cooked gourmet meals for a cat who couldn’t be bothered to spend the night? Or clean up after himself? Or stay when the going got tough? Or give her his number? All men were the same, nothing but whipped cream on the dessert of her life — barely capable of faking it as a fancy frosting, until things got hot. And she was done with bake-offs!

Three blurry hours of HGTV later, just when she was ready to throw it all away and buy a fixer-upper to flip, another phone call from her mother.

“Hi, Mom. It’s not a good time.”

“But that’s when you need me most! Are you okay? You sound like you’ve been crying.”

“I’m fine. That was hours ago.”

“Is it Henry? Did that bastard try to come crawling back? I’ll kick him in the kneecaps.”

“That would be illegal, and no, it’s not Henry. But I appreciate the thought.” Henry had never tried to come back. Men didn’t come back. They only left. Then she was crying all over again. It came out in broken sentences and ugly snorts and sudden wracking sobs. All of the rejections — including the camping trip with Rob-whom-she-never-should-have-kissed to the day Henry walked out, to the man she’d just met this morning who’d broken up with her after one not-even-a-date. Stunningly, her mother listened, mostly in silence.

Eventually the gusts died down. A normal breath. “And the worst part is, my cat ran away.”

“Since when did you have a cat?”

“He wasn’t really mine. He just kind of lived on my porch. Most of the time.”

“Well, you always did have a problem with commitment.”

In the aftermath of the emotional storm, the words just hung there, devoid of power to hurt, their truth revealed.

“Huh. I guess I do.”

Her nose was still stuffy the next morning, almost painfully. Sleep had barely helped. The bowl she’d forgotten to bring in was empty, but so was his usual chair on the porch. However, curled up on the mat next to it was a small brown-and-white dog, pointy-eared, leather-collared, panting cheerfully. Even through the glass door she could read the name on the collar’s metal plate.

Bourdain was gentle and happy to see her, especially for another can of cat food. She got the phone number off the collar, punched it in, and stared at it. Stared at it some more. Finally she pressed Call.

“Hi, Marshall? This is Jerri. From yesterday? I’m sorry, I know you probably weren’t expecting to hear from me, but, um, I found Bourdain. He’s on my porch. It must have been the food I left out for my cat.”

“Holy cow! I’m so glad you found him! How are you doing?” He sounded genuine, but could she trust it? Did he really say, “Holy cow”?

“I’m... okay. Well, no, I’m not. My cat’s still missing.”

“I am so sorry. Can I take you out to brunch after I pick up Bourdain? Maybe that French restaurant — although the crêpes might not be as good as the ones in your book. I was kicking myself for not getting your number yesterday, but I didn’t want to be that creepy guy who came on too strong — oh my gosh, am I being that creepy guy right now?”

She wanted to laugh, but what if he was only being nice to make her feel better? Or what if he wasn’t kidding about being creepy? Somehow a chuckle leaked out. “Brunch would be great, if you’re sure.”

“Of course I’m sure! Also, Bourdain is very particular about waiting in cars, and the French place has a nice quiet parking lot. Does that sound weird?”

“Not at all.” Although it did. But it also sounded like something she might do.

She gave him her address and hung up with a sigh. Should she risk it, or watch re-runs of “Flip or Flop”? She hated every part of this process, she realized. And yet, remembering her mother’s diagnosis, she was pretty sure it was the right thing to do.

Yoga pants wouldn’t cut it. She’d have to fix her puffy eyes. Upstairs she opened the closet, turned on the light. Somewhere in here she still had—

And there he was. Second shelf from the top, tucked back on her cashmere sweater, a shadow in the shadows. Six feet off the floor, behind the closed door, in the closet she’d already looked in.

Yellow eyes blinking, black ears twitching. For the first time, not hissing nor particularly stressed. He almost looked, dare she say it, happy to see her. She tentatively held up a hand, expecting him to cower, bracing herself for the usual response. Instead, he sniffed it, then stretched his neck, lowered his head, and waited.

She touched his cheek with one finger. He leaned into it. Soon he was rubbing against her hand, eyes half-lidded with contentment. His fur was thick as the plushest wool carpet, soft as the sweater he’d made his nest, and, though dry, appeared as impermeable as oiled leather and probably warmer than Polar Fleece. His purr was a deep rumble, rough, as if rarely used. It made her catch her breath, a joyous gasp that surprised them both, until he placed a paw on her hand as if to say, More please. Or maybe, What took you so long?

What had taken her so long?

In a weird way, the head-tingling, euphoric rush of finding him, finally petting him, was better than any kiss she’d ever had. It was almost like the first kiss. All the giddy excitement without the anticipation of heartbreak to come. Though there were a thousand ways a man could break your heart, there was only one way a cat could do it, and today her heart could breathe because he hadn’t. He was alive, and she would never kick him out again.

Henry would have never understood. But she had a feeling Marshall would.