Mary-Anne pulled her beat-up station wagon haphazardly into its usual spot with the scrape of her front bumper against the cement guardrail. She swung the faux-oak paneled door open and stumbled clumsily from the car. “Whoops,” she mumbled as she reached back inside to grab her old cat motif canvas shoulder bag from the passenger seat. She slammed the door of her car shut and traipsed across the parking lot.
As she entered the door of the animal shelter, Mary-Anne breathed in deeply and let the familiar smell of mothballs and kitty litter flow through her body. Her beat up tennis shoes squeaked down the linoleum-tiled hallway, she slowed her steps and allowed herself to relax into the routine of the coming day. Mary-Anne unlocked the door and stepped into her small, dim office. Without pause, she casually flicked on the lights and flung her bag onto the floor next to her patched wheelie desk chair in a nonchalant manner. She continued to the door behind her desk and unlocked it with the keys that hung on a hook beside the frame. She didn’t know why one would bother to lock a door when the keys were kept right next to it, but that was how it had always been done so that was how it would stay.
She entered the small white room and greeted all the cats. “Good morning! And how is everyone this morning?” She cooed as she stroked the cats that swarmed around her legs. They stumbled over each other to get to her. Mary-Anne turned to her cuddly kitties calendar hanging on the wall. She slid her finger down until it found today’s box. “Cat Adoption” was scrawled across the small space. “Today is a very special day,” she told her kitty companions. “Because today, one of you lucky cats is going away to live out your days in a new family’s home!” She pulled a file from a shelf on the wall, dusted off a few cat hairs from it and opened it. “The Bemman family: Mom, Dad and two kids. Now doesn’t that sound nice?” A chorus of meows greeted her in response.
After replenishing the food and water for all of her cats, Mary-Anne returned to her office. She put on her work sweater that hung on the back on the cat door and ran her hands over the thick wool embroidered with miniature balls of yarn and tiny mouse toys. She quickly did up the buttons and dropped lightly into her desk chair. Mary-Anne had always believed that it was easier to trust a cat expert when they looked the part. Slapping down the folder on her desk, she swivelled to face her computer and punched the on button. The machine slowly purred to life. Her desktop appeared, but as she started to move her mouse the screen froze and turned a sickly blue colour. Mary-Anne cheerily smacked the monitor and the screen pixelated back to life. “There we go,” she thought. “I knew we could get a few more years out of you.”
She pulled up her email and tacked in her login. FelineFriend’sFacilitator@gmail.com was now signed in and ready to go. Mary-Anne sighed and scrolled down the full page of emails she had received over the past few weeks. A few were from cat food distributors, one or two were from her parents, but most were from upset clients of the cat shelter, all of them distraught that their cats had died so early. What had these people expected when they had adopted a twenty one year old cat with liver failure and heart disease? She told the Daltons that Mittens wouldn’t be making it to the New Year and the Youngs knew that Rusty was down to his second last life. The point of this shelter was to give older, sicker cats a nice home to live out their last few months in, why were they always so surprised when the cats passed on? She had always been a firm believer that the younger cats should wait their turn and allow the older, less wanted cats to be adopted first.
Mary-Anne sighed and logged off of her email, and turned her attention to the folder that detailed the Bemmans. She read the description of the kind of cat they wanted: A young tabby kitten. Of course. Who didn’t want a young tabby kitten these days? “If I had a nickel for every time I had to persuade a family out of getting a kitten, I’d be… well, I wouldn’t be driving my station wagon to work,” she thought. Mary-Anne turned to her computer and pulled up her cat directory. She scrolled through the familiar names and faces of all of her cats. She paused briefly at the picture of a sweet young kitten that the Bemmans probably thought would be perfect for them, but Mary-Anne knew better. They would be just as happy with a “mature” cat. After all, Sweet Pea had been waiting for a home to go to for years and his cataracts weren’t getting any better. The trick was to not let the family see the other younger cat options. If they couldn’t see the kittens, they couldn’t fall in love with them.
A few hours later, Mary-Anne sat at her desk and looked at the perfectly groomed family that sat across from her. The father was in a dark, corporate suit, the mother a pink argyle sweater set and the children looked far too clean and proper for her taste. What would people like this want a cat for anyways? A cat wouldn’t fit into their perfect lifestyle and feline owners had to be willing to accept the features and the flaws of the new member of their family. She knew this was going to be a hard sell. Sweet Pea sat on her desk and stared at the Bemmans through his cloudy eyes. Mary-Anne had done her best to clean him up but the bow she had plopped onto his head contrasted disconcertingly with his large bald patches. Mr. and Mrs. Bemman looked at the cat, transfixed with shock, while their children seemed to be highly amused by the guttural wheezing Sweet Pea had started to emit. Mrs. Bemman coughed delicately. “And how old would this, um, ‘Sweet Pea’ be then?” she asked.
“He’s sixteen,” Mary-Anne answered. Mr. Bemman raised his eyebrows.
“An old sixteen,” Mary-Anne clarified.
“Yes, well you see, we were hoping for a slightly younger cat,” Mrs. Bemman said. “When we specified a kitten on our adoption form, we were thinking no older than 3 years.”
“Ah yes,” Mary-Anne nodded, pretending to understand for the first time. “Well unfortunately we are fresh out of kittens! But who wants a kitten anyways? Too much training! Sweet Pea here is already litter box trained. Of course you do have to be careful because of his bladder control issues…”
She trailed off as she saw the look of horror on Mrs. Bemman’s face. Mary-Anne could tell that this appointment was going to the dogs. She had to do something, fast. “Why don’t you try to pick him up? Sweet Pea’s a cuddler!”
“Well alright,” said Mrs. Bemman. She approached the cat with caution and lifted him gingerly into her arms. The wheezing Sweet Pea had been producing began to grow louder at an alarming rate. “Are you sure that it is ok?” Mrs. Bemman asked in a panicked voice.
“Oh, yes! Sweet Pea just gets a tad over excited when he meets new people-” But before Mary-Anne could reassure Mrs. Bemman further, Sweet Pea slowly rotated his head an unnatural amount to stare up at the horrified face of Mrs. Bemman. The wheezing grew until it became a low hiss.
“I do not think that I am comfortable with this,” said Mrs. Bemman, the hissing getting louder all the while. The rest of the tiny perfect family looked on in shock.
“No, no! Do not be alarmed! That’s just how he greets his friends!” Mary-Anne said brightly. “It’s actually quite charming isn’t it?” His hiss began to sputter, choked off by a large coughing fit. This symphony of old cat noises climaxed with the large, wet sneeze Sweet Pea issued onto Mrs. Bemman’s powder pink patterned sweater.
“That is it!” said Mr. Bemman. “I will not have my wife and children endangered by this, this thing you are masquerading as a cat! We are leaving.” He scooped Sweet Pea out of his wife’s arms and dumped him unceremoniously onto Mary-Anne’s desk. “Good day!” he finished as he shepherded his family out of the door.
Sweet Pea creaked his head around and looked up at her. “Meeeoww,” he told her proudly.
“Oh Sweet Pea,” Mary-Anne groaned, slumping back into her chair. “What am I going to do with you?” She plucked the bow out of his hair and ruffled it back to its usual mess. Sweet Pea blinked once at her before he turned his attention to her computer mouse. Mary-Anne sighed and watched Sweet Pea bat contentedly at his makeshift toy. She started to heave herself up from her chair when her phone rang abruptly. “Hello, Feline Friend’s Final Days Shelter, how my I help you?” She said unenthusiastically into the phone.
“Oh hello dear, I am interested in finding a cat to keep me company. Would you have anything available?” a small, elderly voice echoed through the phone line.
“We have over fifty cats here at the shelter, was there a specific breed you had in mind? We have shorthair, longhair, semi-longhair and don’t get me started on the hairless breeds.”
“I am in my eighties dear, so perhaps an older cat? Maybe one with a little less energy?” the lady responded.
“Do I have the cat for you,” said Mary-Anne. A smile spread over her face as she turned to look at Sweet Pea.