2. Kai
Chapter 2
Kai
The window is a fantastic vantage point over Leo’s parking space. He exits the building and strolls to his car, checking his watch. Beep-beep . The lights on his car flash, and he opens the door, which is my cue to get a move on. I shift into human form—cats don’t have opposable thumbs—open the window, climb onto the ledge, shut the window, and turn into a cat again. I’m halfway down the building, my sights set on Leo’s car, when he stares at the ceiling and pulls an adorable face. It’s his ‘Fuck, I’ve forgotten something’ face. He closes the car but doesn’t lock it—loveable idiot that he is—and trudges back towards the apartment block.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I hot-foot it up the building, back into human form, open the window, slip inside, close it, and transform into a cat, nonchalantly watching the world go by. Just in time. Two seconds later, Leo walks into the flat.
“Forgot my lunch. ”
I pretend to ignore him.
He rummages around in the fridge, pulls some things out, and then comes and pats me on the head. “I’m going this time. See you later, Cay.”
I nudge his palm with my nose because I’m a total sucker for head pats. That’s what being a cat for seventeen years has done to me.
He leaves the flat. Of course he forgets to lock the door in his hurry not to be late for work. I roll my eyes and flick my tail briefly, then switch forms again. I lock the door from the inside and head back out the window.
I barely make it to his car before he sets off. I sneak underneath it, into the vehicle’s undercarriage, and find a place to hunker down during the drive. I could follow him in other ways, but getting a ride is far simpler. I also get to nap for a bit, which I need, considering my nighttime shenanigans.
Annoying burglar, disturbing my sleep. I bet he didn’t expect to see a cat turn into a guy when climbing a wall. It wasn’t my fault; he was so surprised he lost his grip and fell. Nope. Not one bit. At least the bins were there to break his fall. And because he made so much noise, I had to create chaos in the apartment so Leo wouldn’t realise what had happened. He has Good Samaritan syndrome. He would one hundred per cent have gone outside in his boxer shorts to help the burglar. What if the burglar was concealing a knife? Nope, there was no way I was letting Leo get himself into trouble .
I’m rudely awoken by the slam of the driver’s door. Are we there already? I yawn, stretch, and slip out of my hiding place. Leo goes into the rescue shelter he works at, and I crawl to my usual vantage point—a tall tree overlooking the exercise yard. I can’t keep an eye on him all the time, but how could he get into trouble in a dog rescue shelter? Aside from being bitten by a dog. Rabies. He could get rabies. Or I’m being over dramatic. Seventeen years. Remember?
I sit on a high branch concealed by leaves. I wrap my tail around my legs and watch.
Leo jogs into the yard, followed by a bouncy yellow labrador on a lead. They play for a while. Leo rewards her with lots of treats and praise and then does some training exercises with her, which earns her even more treats and praise. The most I get is head pats and being accused of being a chaos gremlin, which, to be fair, I probably deserve. And I do like head pats.
I wasn’t shocked when Leo started volunteering at the rescue shelter or when he went on to work there full time. He’s a kind, sweet man who loves to help others—humans and animals alike. He took me in quickly enough. A tiny, helpless kitten mewling outside his back door. I gave him something else to focus on while he was reeling from disaster. By taking care of me, he ended up taking care of himself. We’ve been through university, moving out of his family home into an apartment and fourteen years of working at the shelter.
I shouldn’t be surprised he called me old last night. Me! Old! But he’s right. Cayenne the cat won’t be able to hang around forever. Or for much longer. Hopefully, I can stretch the cat’s tenure for another few years, but how many? Two? Five? Ten? No, that’s pushing it. What will I do after that? Eh, not what I want to think about right now.
A car pulling into the car park draws my attention away from Leo. A family gets out. The children babble excitedly and pull on their parents’ hands. Nothing for me to worry about. Even so, I track them until they’ve gone into the shelter and wait for them to reappear.
After a while, they enter the exercise yard with Leo and an energetic puppy whose coat is a brown, black, and white patchwork. The puppy runs rings around the parents.
“I don’t think this is the one for us,” the father says.
One of the children bursts into tears and sprints inside. A few seconds later, he exits into the car park and slips around the edge of the building, sobbing.
I slink down from my tree and go up to him with a soft mewl.
Sniffing, he stares at me with tear-soaked eyes. “Where did you come from, kitty?”
I rub against his legs, making him laugh. I drop and roll onto my back, allowing him to stroke my tummy. When he does, I wriggle as though he’s tickling me. His tears are forgotten, replaced by joyous laughter.
I used these antics when I first met Leo. His sadness was harder to overcome. I managed it. Eventually .
Footsteps approach us.
“There you are. Don’t ever run off like that again,” the boy’s mother says.
“I was playing with the kitty.”
I’m gone.
“What cat?”
“He was here a second ago.”
“Come inside. We can look at some older, calmer dogs.” She takes the boy’s hand and leads him away.
The family leave a while later without a dog. Not that families who come looking ever go home with a dog on the first visit. Sometimes, they come back; other times, they don’t. Or maybe they do, but Leo isn’t working that day.
I lie on the tree branch, idly flicking my tail back and forth. A bird chirps from the far end of the branch, which is too thin for a cat to brave. Is the bird trying to tempt me into catching it? It hops a little closer, singing to get my attention. Too bad, buddy. I’m not a real cat. I’m not going to play.
The bird sings louder and bounces just out of paw range. I take a half-hearted swat at it. It jumps away and then comes back. I roll my eyes and lick my paw to tell it I’m too lazy to hunt it. It comes within paw range again. I don’t move. It bobs its head from side to side, probably confused. It chirps and bounces forward. I swat at it once more, not wanting it to think cats won’t hurt it. It flies a few branches higher and watches me.
Below, Leo walks to his car.
I stand. The bird hops back and forth and chirps. I hiss. It flies higher still, well out of my reach. Good. A real cat would have chased it up the tree for being so bold. But I’m not interested in the bird or going up. It’s time for me to go down. Using my claws for grip, I race down the tree, jumping from branch to branch, dislodging leaves, and making it to my hiding place in Leo’s car just in time.
I don’t sleep on the way home. I must be ready to race into the apartment so Leo remains oblivious that I left it.