22. A New Bestie #2
“Here, here, come right here.” He whispered and made a clicking noise with his tongue against the roof of his mouth, a whole production of soft inviting sounds which he’d previously reserved only for Nutella croissants and really nice dicks, but there was a kitten quivering in the dark and he had to save it.
He, Jonathan Park, had another mission today that he would not, could not, fail.
The kitten crept closer.
He clucked again, a bit more quietly.
Mew mew. The kitten blinked and tottered, nearly falling, but it came closer.
Jonathan also blinked, made a very, very, quiet kissy noise, and let his hands slowly drop to the ground.
Was it close enough now for him to scoop his forearm under the dumpster and gather it into his hands? Or would that send it scrambling back again?
Mewwww.
The tips of tiny whiskers emerged from under the giant mean metal monster container, the tippiest tips ever to explore the world, but at least that meant he knew he could reach it. If he could be fast enough.
He let himself breathe out, and in the calm space before he inhaled, he moved.
Mew. Mew. Mew.
The miniature being cupped in his palms weighed less than a book and was shivering despite the warmth of the day.
It felt as fragile as a heartbeat. He searched the back alley, but there was no evidence of a mommy cat.
Probably off screwing the kitten’s coach or drinking 80 proof milk under a deck somewhere, but whatever.
The kitten wasn’t alone anymore.
In order to wave his key card at the back door, he transferred the kitten to the bend of his elbow and held it close to his body. Inside the library, he paused. What to do next seemed rather opaque.
“Jonathan?” Boss Becca appeared at his side, and Jonathan reminded himself, as he did nearly daily, that just because he separated Boss Becca from Softball Becka in his mind that way, he must never ever say either descriptor aloud to either person.
“Good work with that garbage clean up.” She frowned at him. “But what is—
He looked at her.
“Right.” She clacked her teeth together. “I see it’s a kitten. But why is there a kitten?”
“Sometimes when a mommy cat has needs—”
“Jonathan.”
“Well.” He looked down at his elbow and lost his thoughts. The kitten had stopped shivering and closed its eyes.
“The kitten?”
“I took the garbage to the dumpster, and this was crying underneath and I couldn’t leave it, I couldn’t.” He wasn’t precisely babbling, but he definitely needed to stop.
“Of course not.”
He felt a surge of relief at her approval. “What should we do?”
“No idea. I have a corgi.” She swept her arm across the air in front of her. “But I hear people can find answers to questions in this place.”
“I mean, it must need…milk?”
“What’s going—ohhhh!” Lily interrupted herself, and her rising voice made Jonathan clutch his fragile bundle to his chest. Wait, it was dirty. It had been on the ground in the alley. But it was little and cold, and today he was wearing black.
His boss was explaining the kitten’s origin story to Lily and the parent and child who had also joined their small group, completely uninvited and unauthorized. This was getting out of hand. Undernourished, cold kittens did not like crowds.
“And you should take it to a vet. It needs to be checked for worms and eye infections and the like. You could try the West Side shelter, they have a good reputation,” the patron was talking as if this was Becca’s kitten or she was in charge.
Well, actually, she was in charge. But it was Jonathan’s kitten.
“The shelter might be able to find it a home, although it looks awfully young.” The woman peered closer. “Maybe about three weeks old? I grew up on a farm with lots of cats.”
That answered the who made you an expert question he hadn’t spoken out loud. “No shelters!”
This kitten needed a loving, nurturing, stable home, perhaps some Egyptian cotton towels warmed in the dryer, and attention. It needed attention.
“Jonathan.” Boss Becca used the cease-prattling voice, quiet enough for the library but firm enough that Jonathan practiced his own version in the mirror at home. “Take the kitten to the break room. Settle it before more patrons discover what you have and arrive like moths to a flame.”
He nodded at the circle of people with ideas before he swept down the aisle of books, but the woman who had spoken of shelters didn’t get a smile with real teeth or even both sides of his mouth. She’d ignored him, but he wasn’t going to take that personally, not really.
Okay, he did.
Behind him, he heard Becca say, “And no, Lily, you are not required in the break room. Jonathan is perfectly capable.”
He was perfectly capable of losing his shit, that’s what. But, like everything else the library required him to do, he could do this.
First, he found an empty copier paper box, which easily contained the kitten, then washed his hands and started researching what three-week old kittens ate.
They couldn’t poop for themselves until they were approximately twenty days old.
Maybe this wasn’t going to work.
Lily bustled in and headed straight for the water kettle. While she waited for it to boil, she plopped a bag of Earl Grey into her giant mug and bent closer to the box Jonathan had lined with newspapers from the recycle bin. “This is a perfect fit for you, honestly.”
“A cat?” Jonathan shifted the half-and-half container in the breakroom fridge, but neither kitten formula nor goat milk, allegedly the best choices for a kitten, magically appeared.
Cow’s milk was forbidden on all the websites, and the office fridge didn’t have goat milk, go figure.
But yogurt was part of the recipe for homemade kitten formula, and whoopsie, someone had left a small carton of an elite European goat milk yogurt in the fridge, perhaps assuming no one would steal evil ruminant yogurt, but clearly not anticipating a kitten.
“Not just a cat. A fancy schmancy tuxedo kitten that bites at my finger.”
“I do not bite.” Maybe it was time to look in the box again, just to check, but Lily and her smirk blocked his path. He stuck his nose in the air. “Not at fingers.”
Her smirk didn’t lessen; if anything, she got smirkier.
“Well, not at women’s fingers.”
The kettle made the beginnings of a whistle, and she unplugged it before it reached a pitch to be heard outside the room. It wasn’t soon enough to prevent Kitten from crying though, and Jonathan glared as she poured water into her mug.
“Looks like you have things under control here. I’ll skip my break and cover the desk so you can feed your new bestie.”
“Don’t leave me! I don’t know how—”
“You’ve got this.” She left him alone with a kitten, a carton of goat yogurt, and nary a clue.
“Oh, you monster, what am I going to do.” Even if the kitten could hear his whisper, it undoubtedly couldn’t understand.
It was shivering again, practically shaking its whole body. Must be the air-conditioning, because the staff room was the chilliest part of the building.
His cardigan, a cashmere affair he’d been inspired to purchase last year at an Upper East Side thrift shop after a post from an opinionated menswear blogger, hung on the back of his chair. It was both beautiful and cozy. It was also pale gray, and the kitten was mostly black.
Fuck my life.
The cashmere made a perfect nest.
The internet told him to put a tiny dab of yogurt on the kitten’s tongue and then rest one finger on its throat to check if it could swallow.
Under his right first finger, he felt the smallest, weakest pulse, a barely-there sensation that scared him so deeply with its tenuous connection to this world that he had to bite his lip.
Then the tiniest pink tongue emerged and touched the white droplet he held out from the first finger of his left hand. He felt a different flutter that might be, could be, a swallow.
“You are so good, you are such a sweet kitten.” He clucked again with his mouth because that seemed to be what people did with baby things.
Another droplet of goat yogurt, another swallow. He would nourish this kitten drop by drop if he had to, but what he really needed was a bottle and kitten formula. It was supposed to drink every four or five hours and its last meal could have been anytime.
Jonathan knew exactly who would jump into action to get formula, all his perpetual enthusiasm harnessed to an animal rescue. He took a picture of the little black ears and white mouth and neck, with the tiniest slits of blue eyes showing, and sent it to Connor.
Jonathan
I found this at the library dumpster.
I need help.
Connor
I am coming right now
I am leave my groceries in cart and coming
To the liberty Now
Jonathan
Stop. Don’t come here yet.
Connor
I need
Jonathan
I need you to go to a pet store and get kitten milk replacer and a bottle with nipples or whatever the people at the store tell you to get.
And a heating pad.
Connor
On it
But then I need to cuddles
Jonathan
You have a dog.
Connor
Ribby is very good. Ribby needs a kitten
Jonathan
Formula and kitten stuff.
Connor
Right yes
Jonathan actually did have to return to the circulation desk, but luckily the box with the sacrificial sweater and its occupant fit under the counter, if he placed the large tech router thingy on the floor.
The kitten had a secure dark spot to doze, Jonathan’s knees brushed the box when he wanted reassurance, and he was perfectly capable of standing at the computer terminal without tripping on the equipment he’d temporarily relocated.
He was, after all, a former internationally competitive athlete who specialized in knowing his body placement and could certainly avoid hazards.
Lily, not so much.
“Shhh-eets,” she muttered and bent to rub her shin. “That corner is—”
“Hush, Kitten is asleep.”
Her eyes widened at his tone. “Sorry.”
Before he could apologize for his inadvertent imitation of their boss, Connor rushed in carrying two bags, looking more breathless, messy, and gorgeous than usual. Jonathan’s ribs were squeezing all his insides too tightly, and he wasn’t sure how he managed to keep breathing.