Susan, the long-fingered one, had brought him here, probably another vacation. He usually boarded at the vet's, where squalling cats and growling dogs complained to their owners about shots. Whenever Susan dropped him off at the vet's, she would chirp about Florida or England or Mexico. This time, she had hiccupped and sobbed: "Spooky belongs to both of us, it's hard for either of us to claim him. Besides, Bob and I are both moving to apartments - no pets allowed. Since we couldn't find a home for him, we decided on the shelter."
Susan gave the manager five crisp ten-dollar bills, two toys, and an opened bag of food. The manager shook her head to refuse the porcelain dinner bowls. "Sorry, we don't have time to sterilize them." Susan tucked the newspaper-wrapped bowls back in her totebag. She scratched Spooky between the shoulder blades, the one place he couldn't reach, hiccupped again, then fled out the side door.
The manager, a woman in a faded plaid skirt, had inspected his fur for fleas, recorded his temperature, examined his eyes and ears. Satisfied, she put him head-first into his cage and clinked a metal lock. Finally, she jotted information about him on a notecard that she taped to the bars.
Every morning, the manager transferred him to a cardboard box. She stroked him with her rubber-gloved hand, but he stiffened. Why didn't she remove the glove and coo "pretty kitty" or "good boy?" Efficient, she scooped out the cat litter and added food and water in waxy paper bowls. He used to dip a front paw in his china bowl before drinking; here the bowl tipped over, soaking his cage. In the tiny cardboard litter box, he occasionally braced his legs too close to the edge, soiling the plastic floor. While she sponged the cage with pine cleaner, he cowered in the box.
Although his toys sat on a ledge in his cage, he never touched them. At home, he'd grasp his frayed yarn ball in his front paws to kick it with his back feet. Here, it reminded him of a bathroom, moist and soapy. At home, he'd carry his fur spider by a pipe-cleaner leg and plop it at Bob's feet. Bob would dangle it, hide it under newspaper, and squeak like a mouse. Here, Spooky couldn't even toss it.
Most days, people strolled through the room, their clothes perfumed with sunshine and fresh air. Spooky wedged his nose between the bars to sniff, as if leaning against the screen of an open window. Sometimes people reached between the bars to massage his face. Purring, he'd nudge his chin into their hands. Sometimes they'd talk to him. "What a handsome boy!" Sometimes they'd speak to other people. "A fine cat. My heart's set on a kitten, though." Sometimes the manager scooped a tiny ball of fur for a visitor to cuddle. "Yes, I'll adopt this one." Spooky waited.
One afternoon, the air tingled, cold and damp from the frequent opening of the outside door. Strangers crowded the room, clucking and pointing. "I promised her a kitten for Christmas." "It wouldn't be Christmas without a cat in the house." Spooky pressed against the metal bars and curled his paw toward the visitors. But the people clustered around cages where kittens batted cotton mice.
A lady yanked the bolt of Spooky's cage. She cradled him, nestling her chin on top of his head, murmuring. He curled into a purring ball, warm next to her wool coat. Her gentle fingertips reminded him of Susan. The manager burst out of the back room. "Please do not pick up the cats without asking us first. The shelter rules protect you and the animals."
"Sorry." The wool-coated woman settled Spooky back in and locked the door. "Is something wrong with him? The card says he's been here almost two months." "No, he's a gentleman. People want kittens, that's all. He's healthy, a bit fat because he can't exercise."
The visitor tugged on a man's sleeve. "Look at this cat - six years old, neutered, healthy. And affectionate! Believe me, I broke the rules to hold him." The man leaned forward, wiggling his fingers between the bars. Spooky lifted his head to encourage chin-rubbing, Bob's treat in the old days.
"He's a nice cat, alright. Nothing special, not even a kitten. Just another black cat with a white spot on his nose."
"His eyes, though - have you ever seen such eyes?" He studied the orange full-moon eyes.
"You wanted a breed - Siamese or Persian or something."
"Now I want him."
"Maybe we should check the classified ads or visit a pet store. If you see a Himalayan kitten, you might change your mind."
"Not a chance. This cat needs us."
While the man filled out the papers, the woman grinned at Spooky circling his cage. The manager marched over with a box for Spooky. She plunked his toys in before fastening the lid.
Spooky tucked one front foot under him, the other paw resting on his spider.
In the front seat, the woman said, "Let's see, one litter box in the back hall, one in our bathroom. That way, he'll be comfortable."
In his daydream, Spooky crawled under rumpled, people-scented blankets, his fur spider in his mouth ready for games.