Chapter 19 #2
“I was looking through a list of different things tourists come to Japan for, and animal cafés happened to be one of the top results. I’d had my heart set on taking you to an owl café, but this is the next best option.”
“Well, you chose well, I’m beyond excited. I’ve always wanted to adopt a cat, but I’ve been too nervous to do it.”
“Because of Lillian?” he asks.
“That’s part of it.” I nod.
“And the other reason?”
“I never grew up with cats. It’s always been dogs and horses. I’m nervous about caring for one. If I’m adopting one, I want to make sure I do right by them, so they have a proper forever home.”
“I love how thorough you are. You always do your research.” His lips curve up.
“Having said that, I’m happy to tell you that caring for a cat isn’t as much work as a dog.
They’re independent creatures. As long as you feed them, clean out their litter box, and give them plenty of vertical room and scratching posts, you’ll do just fine. ”
“I thought you only owned fish growing up.”
“I did. But I have two cats. Would you like to see their pictures?”
“Yes, please.”
Our order arrives as I flip through an album of about five hundred photos on Art’s mobile.
I’ll be the first to admit I never pictured the man as a cat daddy, but here’s the photographic proof.
Aside from a hundred selfies, he’s also captured his two felines from just about every angle imaginable—sleeping, bathing, holding on to a toy with their paws, sitting with their paws tucked in, lying stretched out, exposing their belly. The list goes on and on.
“The orange-and-white striped one is named Peppermint, and the black-and-white one is called Cinnamon.”
“You named them after baking spices?”
“Their favorite place to hang out with me when I’m home is in the kitchen. The names actually chose the cats.” He takes a sip of his tea.
“Oh, what’s the story behind that?”
He places his cup down and shrugs. “Peppermint broke a bottle of peppermint extract the day I got him, and Cinnamon managed to knock a jar of the spice off the counter when I was cooking and tracked it all over the flat.”
I giggle. “I love that you chose to turn their accidents into their names.” I pour myself a cup of tea and take a bite of my pancake.
“How did you decide on Lillian’s name?”
“It’s somewhat similar to how your cats got their names. Lilies are my favorite flowers. When Lillian was a puppy, she used to love running through the palace gardens and digging up the flower beds. The flowers she destroyed the most . . .”
“Were the lilies?” he guesses.
“Bingo.” I watch in amusement as he expertly slices his pancakes into equal square-sized pieces. “Who watches your cats when you’re away or working?”
“Most of the time, they’re fine being left to their own devices, entertaining one another. For this trip, though, I asked one of my neighbors to watch them,” he says. “What about Lillian? I remember you mentioning that the staff member who normally watches her is on holiday.”
“I left her with my brother’s dog. She was one of Lillian’s littermates.”
“That’s convenient.” I pour a generous amount of syrup onto my pancakes. A habit I picked up from spending time with Clara and Amanda. Americans love their syrup, and as I’ve learned, so do I.
“Ugh, isn’t that a bit much?” Art frowns. “They’re already sweet, aren’t they?”
“Yup.” I make a point to soak a piece of my food into the thick maple liquid and pop it into my mouth.
It’s delicious, but a tad too sweet even for my liking.
I can’t lose face to Art though. I chew and swallow it with a straight face.
“Mmm.” He shakes his head, choosing not to use any syrup on his, I note.
“What made you decide to adopt cats over the dog you’ve always wanted? ”
“I think you know by now that I have a problem with social anxiety.” He glances at me through his long lashes.
“When I joined the police force, I knew that I needed to find a way to try and work through it. I needed to be able to deal appropriately with my coworkers and the large number of tourists. My mum suggested that getting a dog or cat might help me relax. And she was right. I needed an animal that would work with the tiny space of my flat and my awkward work hours. The internet told me cats were the solution, so cats it was.”
“You can’t disagree with the power of the internet.”
We enjoy swapping more funny stories about what our pets have done before heading over to the cat area.
“You’re tense. It’s all over your body. Are you scared of cats?” Art asks.
“No,” I answer quickly. “I just don’t want to mess up with them. They have sharp claws.”
“Come here,” he says softly. “I’ll show you how it’s done.” He takes hold of my hand and leads me to the center of the room, next to the cat tree. Together, we kneel down on the carpeted floor, watch, and wait.
The cats’ bowls have been cleared away. The felines have dispersed themselves throughout the space. Some are bathing, while others are sleeping or watching us with interest. Two full minutes pass, then a tortoiseshell emerges from a darkened hole at the bottom of the tree.
“Hold out your hand. She wants to sniff you,” Art whispers. “The key is to act like you would with a horse that you’re introducing yourself to. Use slow and deliberate movements, keep your fingers tucked in, and watch its tail.”
“Its tail?”
“Yeah, a lot of cats use their tails to talk. For instance, if it’s upright, like a question mark, they’re happy. If it’s whipping quickly side to side, that means they’re agitated.”
That makes a lot of sense, yet it still seems foreign to me. Dogs are much easier to understand—you can read their faces. Cats, on the other hand, only seem to have one expression.
Art extends my hand toward the cat. It crouches and sniffs it. I watch as its thin tail goes from slowly swishing side to side to upright. A moment later, it begins to purr, and butts its head against my hand.
“That’s a good girl.” Art beams and scratches under its chin.
“How can you tell it’s a girl?”
“Ninety-five percent of all calicos and tortoiseshells are female. Just like eighty percent of orange ones are male. Something to do with the genetics of coat colors.” He shrugs.
“Limit your petting to the forehead area, back of the ears, or its cheeks. Only pet her body if she does it for you by nudging your hand. She’ll let you know what she wants. ”
“I should call you the cat whisperer.”
Soon, more felines surround us, all demanding attention. Art turns out to be much more popular than me. They rub their heads against his hands, elbows, legs, and one even jumps onto his back.
“They must smell Cinnamon and Peppermint on my clothing. They love using my suitcase as a bed sometimes.”
He’s so relaxed and at ease, smiling as he spends time giving each cat a proper pet. Animals are the best judges of character. It’s not lost on me that they see him as a special man. Just as I do. I want nothing more than to spend more time in his arms, kissing.
In the back of my mind, I’m terrified at the thought that when we get home, Art could be taken from me now that we’ve finally admitted we like one another.
I’m more determined than ever to find a way for us to be together.
Trying to find another guy to replace him was foolish. Nobody can measure up to him.
For now, however, we’ll make the most of all the time we can spend together. Before we’re back to reality in a few days’ time.