I am in a room with dozens of cats, sitting on a plastic-covered floral print couch.
"So this is Marly," the shelter owner says. "He has an ulcer over one eye, which makes him not very adoptable. He's ten years old but he's sweet. Oh, I should tell you, he only eats cat food from a tin. If you give him dry food, he throws it up."
"Um...well, I was just looking to foster in the short-term," I say. "Adoptable would be best."
"I guess Simba wouldn't be so great either." She points to the long-haired cat rubbing up against my leg. "Simba's pretty old too and is also missing an eye."
"What about the cat next to me? Who is this?" I pet a soft, furry belly.
"That's Lucy. Yeah, she'd probably be OK. I have to warn you, she doesn't like car rides."
Forty screech-filled minutes later, we arrive home. My nose tells me what I'll find, but I open the carrier anyway. A shit-covered blur darts into a corner and starts scrambling over the books on the bottom of the bookcase.
How does one deal with a shit explosion? A bath, yes? I fill the tub with a few inches of luke-warm water and somehow find a way to grab Lucy. As I'm about to set her in the tub, she enters a terrified rage, clawing wildly at my arms and wrists. Long lines of blood appear. I drop her and she bounces out of the tub like it's a trampoline, making a mad dash for a hiding spot. She hides beneath the easy chair all day, occasionally whimpering.
This is what I deserve for rejecting the one-eyed cats. Karma is a bitch, so they say.
Day 2:
A friend loans me a special wire brush. Lucy is shaking as I try to comb the dried poop out of her fur. She returns to her spot behind a plastic tub, her head low to the ground. I scrub the walls and floors where she's been. I give her salmon-flavored cat treats. She doesn't care. They remain uneaten.
Day 3:
I’ve lost her! I’ve lost Lucy!
Not under the easy chair, not under the futon, not under the table, not on the window ledge, not behind the pantry, not behind the plastic tub, not on the other window ledge, not in the box headed for Goodwill, not in the corner behind the bookcase. Wait, did I check under the table? Better check the easy chair again too.
[30 minutes later]
Found! On the bookcase, third shelf up, pressing her body along the back of my books, head down. She’s a sneaky one.
Day 4:
Uh oh, found poop next to the litter box for a second day in a row. Time to put out another box. It seems that all this cat does is sleep and eat and shit (and hide). Not unlike some humans, perhaps.
Day 6:
Cat shit makes me want to vomit. Why did I agree to have a box of it in my home? Actually two boxes.
Day 10:
I bring cat toys. Like them, dammit.
Day 11:
Yeah, she doesn’t care about the toys.
Day 12:
But! I am finding balls and catnip mice in various crannies and odd spots (such as behind the toilet), which means she is secretly playing with them while I’m gone. I’m a shrewd detective like that.
Day 14:
I tell people that I have a cute little redhead staying with me. My "rebound" so to say. I like this joke and will use it at least three more times.
Day 15:
Dear god, what is that thing?!
It looks like a fuzzy vomit-turd. Oh, this must be a hair ball.
Gross.
Day 16:
I wake up in the middle of the night and get a drink of water. Lucy is in the easy chair, her eyes glowing in the darkness as she unblinkingly stares at my stumbling.
Day 21:
I come home from work. Shoot, I didn’t cover up my yarn box and she’s been making a nice home of the wool strands while I’ve been gone. Also, how much fur can a cat shed? Shouldn’t she be bald by now?
Day 23:
Someone from the shelter calls. She doesn't realize I already have Lucy and lets me know the shelter has a perfect cat for me. Old, one-eyed Marly with the special diet. I decline again and feel guilty.
Day 26:
I am practicing on the keyboard (“Country Roads, Take Me Home”) when Lucy wanders in and stretches out in the middle of the carpeted room. My audience of one. She doesn’t boo and hiss, and when I’m done, she rises. The closest I will ever get to a standing ovation for piano playing, I’m sure.
Day 28:
Lucy hops up onto the futon beside me as I read the weekly paper. She makes her high-pitched meow and then sets one paw on my leg, then the other. Maybe she’ll never be a lap kitty, but we’ve reached a quiet truce. I give her sustenance and she declines to hate me.
Day 30:
There's no hurry to find Lucy a permanent home, right? I just got her a scratching post (finally, I know, my poor door frames) and a new bag of cat food. The wounds on my arms are nearly healed now.
I reach down to pet Lucy, and slowly, gently (lovingly?), she begins to choke up a hair ball, just for me.