Chapter 11
Unloading the groceries is more painful than I could have predicted, especially after I’d been assaulted by a mini tiger.
I now have a mock bandage around my supposed good hand—stacked paper towels affixed with some duct tape that I found in a drawer—but I’m determined to power through as I load up the fridge and freezer.
Every little thing feels like it weighs a ton.
I don’t even know what I bought to eat. Just working my last bit of strength until the bags are empty, but I do note that I got the most important things: coffee, sweet Italian creamer, orange juice, pasta, and alcohol. All I need to survive right now.
Whiska has not emerged from his bathroom—I’ve apparently already declared it his bathroom—so I pour myself a glass of wine and peek in on him.
“I see we are still glaring. Continue on!”
This cat has chosen a very nice bathroom because as I give it a more thorough once-over, I see that it’s basically a spa. Floor-to ceiling herringbone tiles that grace a true wet room behind thick glass doors. The rainfall showerheads and the oversize tub? I have a date with both tomorrow.
I make my way back through the living room and onto the spacious deck.
Even in the moonlight, I can see how this view is going to be captivating during the day, even more so than it is now.
While most outdoor furniture is horrendously uncomfortable, Dave has put out a sofa and two chairs that have plush cushions. It’s not going to suck to stay here.
Only after I shiver a bit do I walk back inside.
The ocean air is way chillier than I thought it’d be at this time of year, but it seems colder in this place than it is outside.
Even though the fireplace is stuffed with wood, newspaper, and what I assume is kindling, I hesitate to use the lighter on the mantel.
It’d be just like me to burn down this beautiful place.
The wine will probably keep me warm enough for now, but I still shoot Dave a text, telling him that I’m here and asking if it’s okay to start this fire.
Dave: Light it up! Been really busy with the food truck. Passing out soon. Up early again tomorrow.
This is the best news possible. I don’t want to see him right now, and I certainly don’t want him to see me in my grossly pathetic state.
So, I do light it up.
My microwaved au gratin potatoes may not be gourmet anything, but I devour them and another few glasses of wine as I relax in the cozy chair that faces the fire until I’m sure I can fall asleep easily.
My new bedroom for the time being is so inviting, and I’m hoping I can pass out.
Disappearing into the night feels like my only friend right now because I don’t want to feel anything.
It’s a matter of minutes before I pass out, and I get twelve hours of physical relief.
Emotionally though, my sleep sucks. My dreams are another level of torture, and I wake unrested and miserable.
My dreams are classic stress ones. In an airport, unable to find the gate, without a boarding pass, running like mad while I have lost my purse, dropped my passport. Or I’m in the back seat of a car, one with no driver. A car that is speeding backward through tunnels and winding roads.
All dreams that bluntly indicate how out of control I feel.
The only reason I get out of bed is to feed the cat. I make a coffee and swear, partially because the coffee is only okay and I miss my Nespresso and partially because I’m still so tired. And because my wrist sucks. And because Patrick is dead.
While he may not like me much, Whiska still devours the food that I set next to him, but it doesn’t elicit any kind of snuggly response. Not that I really expected it to.
He returns to his safe haven, and I then crawl back into my own new safe haven.
God, this bed is great.
When I rouse in the early evening, while the world is dark again, I find that just as I haven’t gotten out of bed, the cat also hasn’t budged. He’s still sulking in his plush cube.
“Whiska!” I call out as I plod around the place in my pajamas. My attempt at a singsong-y voice doesn’t do much.
I load up a dish of wet food and venture back to his spot.
When I sit and hold out tuna bites and try to coax him from his spot, he just fumes and hisses.
It feels pathetic to be on the floor, just a few feet away from a kitty I rescued, one who was groveling for love.
It’s hard not to fume. Like, TikTok and other social media posts always show a rescued cat coming around and jumping into their rescuer’s arms.
My guy clearly loathes me.
Understandably though, it seems fair that he’s not a fan of mine. I don’t exactly have any caretaker skills.
Maybe he’d be better off without me. But his beastly mother was surely worse than I am. At least I hope so.
After wandering around this place and verbally pleading for a thermostat and not finding one, I search for blankets.
Yes, I’ve been given permission to light a fire, but I’m not about to set one up myself for the first time in someone else’s place.
While I’m resigned to the idea that I may live on processed foods and chemicals for the upcoming weeks, I happily heat up another frozen au gratin potatoes and a creamed spinach.
After wrapping myself in a blanket, I sit by the fireplace and post about how I may be a bit radio silent for a while. A little down time is always good, yes?
In hopes of being more uplifting, I then schedule a post with pictures about my adopted/kidnapped/rescued feral kitten. The one I snatched up after shattering my wrist. But I try to make all my traumas a bit humorous with pics of my disgruntled cat.
After sulking in my spot for a bit, I notice the shelving around the fireplace.
And the tons of skinny, colorful books packed in them.
My curiosity is piqued, and I set down my glass and inch forward.
Huh. New Friend Dave has tons of very cute kids’ books here.
There are also some baskets that I pull out and find them filled with toys.
I feel quite sure that he’s not a gross predator, but this is all interesting.
I also research this snowshoe hare, per the town’s name, and I’m immediately enchanted.
Presumably, Dave already knows how cute this animal is, but I am in love with videos of this bunny, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so damn cute.
It’s for sure this town’s mascot. While I have no idea what the difference is between a rabbit and a hare, I’m sure I could look it up.
Or my followers could tell me, but I don’t even care. The crazy cute ears …
This is obviously another post that makes itself.
There’s zero reasoning about what I do next, but I grab a few of these storybooks and march decidedly into the bathroom.
“Heya, Whiska,” I say gently. “Want to hear a story?”
My wine and I sit down. Within minutes of my reading a book called The Little Mouse, the Red Ripe Strawberry, and the Big Hungry Bear, I swear he calms down a bit.
I set up my camera because I have to capture my kitty’s reaction for the next book to see if this was a fluke or not.
I try a charming book called Trashy Town, about a garbage collector, and my Whiska loves it.
Then I find a hilarious book titled No, David!
—a story about a very busy and mischievous toddler and his frustrated parent.
The best page is of a naked David running down the road.
But it ends with a big I love you theme.
I’m so holding on to this to show my David.
Er, well, not my David. The David I know.
What’s meaningful is that my Top Cat Hargitay actually looks at the pictures, responds to my words, and happily flicks his tail.
Cats usually thump their tails when they’re pissy, as far as I know, but he’s relaxing, softening his eyes, and burying his head into his paws.
Those are for sure happy wags, and then he’s out like a light.
After I post about this slight success, I curl into the magical bed, marginally less miserable than I’ve been.
So much of social media is utter crap, with mean trolls trying to ruin everything, but I fall asleep to such wonderful comments.
People love my rude cat and his now-positive response to being read to.
They sympathize with my broken hand and send all the love and stories about how I am not alone in losing a friend.
My phone dings with a text from Dave.
Dave: You okay?
Dave: Okay if I stop by tomorrow night? Make you dinner.
What? Am I gonna say no? There are not enough pillows to flop over my head after I reply, saying that’d be cool.