Page 75 of Gin and Bear It

I stand up so we’re eye to eye, and he stares me down like I’m a piece of garbage.

“Why are you upset with me when you wrecked our ceiling?” I ask him.

He lets out a grumbly meow and turns away from me, showing me his butthole.

“Thanks for that,” I say. He makes a weird sound, something between a chirp and a meow, and turns around to face me again.

I skim the info card on his cage, which says his name is CC—short for Ceiling Cat. I snort. Apparently he’s not aggressive or fearful but doesn’t really warm up to people. I let him sniff my fingers through the cage bars, and to my surprise, he rubs his cheek on me. The affectionate gesture is neutralized by him turning his back to me again, butt right at my eye level.

I visit with the other cats, reading all of their info and letting them sniff me when they seem interested. Each card is handwritten with affection, even though the cats aren’t in their forever homes yet.

“Okay, awesome,” the volunteer coordinator says when she comes back into the cat room. “Now it’s socializing time. We have a space one room over where we let them run free and play with y’all.”

The coordinator and one of her helpers point out a few cats who like other cats, and we help bring them into the play room. CC is one of them, even though he looks annoyed that he’s being moved.

The room is filled with cat trees, tunnels, and spots for the cats to hide. A few bins are filled with toys, and some of the kittens go straight toward the bins.

I grab a few mouse toys and sit on the ground toward the corner, away from everyone else. Pip has taught me that the more I try to give him space, the less space he wants. Maybe that’ll work on some of these cats.

Some stroll by me, but CC walks directly to me, stopping with a meow.

“Uh, hi.” I hold out a mouse toy, which he sniffs and takes from me.

He bats it around behind me, and I stay put. At least until something claws up my back and onto my shoulder, and I nearly yell before I stop myself. CC is on my shoulder, perched like I’m a pirate and he’s my parrot. I stay completely still. Is he going to swat at me? Or what?

I lift my hand and he briefly sniffs me, staying still. Like I’m a piece of furniture.

“Oh, how lovely!” The volunteer coordinator claps her hands together, beaming. “He’s never done that with anyone before!”

“Really? Seems like he’s had practice,” I say.

“He likes high places. Maybe try to stand?”

I glance at him, even though all I can see in my peripheral vision is a black patch of fur. I slowly shift from sitting, to kneeling, to standing, wincing when he digs his claws into my shoulder. But he stays put and even purrs a little.

“Here’s a tube treat.” The volunteer coordinator hands an open tube to me and CC shifts on my shoulder to lunge for it.

I take the tube and feed it to him. He sucks it down like it’s his last meal. I expect him to hop off now that I’ve given him a treat, but he still perches on me.

He stays on my shoulder, surveying the room, and only hops off when he’s close to one of the wall shelves. I learn the hard way to stick close to him, because otherwise he takes a massive leap toward my shoulder and nearly gives me a concussion. He even plays with other cats when I’m around, like I’m his bodyguard.

Close to lunch, Waylon pops his head into the cat room, then slips in when he sees that none of the cats will make a run for it.

“Oh wow, he actually likes you,” Waylon says when he sees CC on my shoulder again. It’s the first time he’s said something to me without a tone of distaste since Jada and I married, and I didn’t realize how much I missed that.

“Yeah, apparently I’m the only one. Or I’m just a good seat.” I shrug and CC licks his paw.

“He hasn’t had a lot of interest from potential homes.” Waylon squats down and pets another cat that’s come to check him out. “He’s standoffish, so we were worried that he just wasn’t friendly with people.”

“Maybe he smells Pip,” I say.

“Maybe. But cats can be decent readers of people.” Waylon gives me a half shrug, his words carrying some weight.

I look at the small herd of cats coming to sniff Waylon, feeling too exposed. What’s he implying? I want to ask, but we’re in the middle of a room of cats and volunteers. Some small glimmer of hope blooms. Maybe he doesn’t think I’m a piece of shit.

But he doesn’t elaborate. He excuses himself to go talk to the volunteer coordinator for a moment, then leaves.

That little piece of hope buoys me throughout the rest of the day, as does CC’s weight on my shoulder. I almost miss him when I head home for the day, but Pip rushes up to me to fill the cat gap.