“Especially the mean people,” she says. “It annoys them when their mean doesn’t turn you mean. Trust me, I’ve been in those situations too many times to count, and I know just how hard it is to stay calm and smile like I mean it when I absolutely don’t.”
“Maybe you’re a better person than I am?” I say, and I mean it. Most people are nice, but I can imagine the kind of people who aren’t and have a problem with a woman showing up as their animal control officer might have an even bigger problem with aBlack woman showing up. I want to go head-to-head with those people on her behalf.
“I’m sure I am,” she says with a teasing smile. “Just do what I do and focus on your goal. Think about how doing well in your job and getting a scholarship will piss off those hateful people.”
It sounds so easy when I’m sitting across from her, but I’m not at all sure I’ll be able to manage it in the field. “I’ll try.”
I head out with those words in mind and get through the rest of my day with shockingly few interactions with humans.
I pick Harper up from daycare, and it’s all I can do not to tell her about our new pet as she walks back to the car with me, her steps slow. She must have had a rough day herself, because she nods off in her car seat before we even get home.
Looks like it’ll be an early night for both of us.
She wakes when I pick her up, her small face scrunching in displeasure. “I know, sweetie,” I say. “I hate being woken up, too. But we’re home, and you need dinner.”
She wraps her arms around my neck, her soft cheek against my own, her warm scent one of my favorite smells in the world. I leave our bags in the car and head for the house.
I open the door slowly, prepared for Marmalade to make a run for it, but there’s no furry orange nose pushing at the opening and meowing for freedom.
Harper shifts in my arms, ready to get down and run into the house to visit her stuffies, like she does every day when I bring her home. “Let’s get inside first, honey.”
I swing the door fully open, and a flash of orange races past my feet.
“Shit,” I say as Harper wiggles out of my arms and slides down to stand and stare up at me with wide eyes and mouth.
If Harper were older or another adult were here, I’d race off after Marmalade, but there’s no way the two of us are catching that cat. We’re just going to have to hope we can find him atour own pace. And that means explaining things to Harper. “I’m sorry, baby,” I say. “Never repeat that word.”
“Grandma says only trash people say bad words. Are you a trash people?” It’s clear from her tone and the mischief in her eyes what she’s hoping for.
“People who say bad words are not trash or trashy people. But we shouldn’t say those words, and I was wrong to say it. Right now, I need your help to find the cat who just ran out of here.”
Harper’s brows crease together. “Where’s the cat?”
She spins, looking for the cat, and it’s then I notice the absolute chaos and destruction Marmalade has wrought on our living room. Tissues have been taken out of the box, shredded, and strewn everywhere. All the cushions from the couch are now on the floor, and everything that was on a flat surface is now also on the floor. Luckily, I don’t own much that’s breakable because of Harper.
“The cat made a mess?” Harper asks. “Where is the cat?”
I grab her before she can run off to look for it and kneel in front of her. If we can’t find that cat, it’s going to break her heart, but I don’t know what to do other than to tell her the truth. “His name is Marmalade, and he’s a big orange cat. He ran outside when we came in. Want to go with me to look for him?”
Because she’s my kid, she tilts her head to the side and gives me a suspicious look. “You don’t bring animals home. You said that’s badprodecure.”
“Procedure,” I say. “You’re right. But this cat has nowhere else to go. And I’m worried about him out there all alone. Will you help me?”
That gets her attention. “We need to help him.” She pushes back her shoulders and lifts a pudgy hand to shove away the blond curls falling into her face. “Let’s go,” she says.
I stand and take her hand. Together, we step back out into the chilly November evening.
There’s an orange cat sitting on our front stoop. We don’t have a porch. We have a stoop, which is a concrete block with concrete stairs. And Marmalade is sitting on the edge of that stoop, calmly cleaning himself like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
As soon as we step fully onto that concrete block, he zips past us back into the house through the door Harper left wide open.
“Quick,” I say. “Let’s get inside before he changes his mind.”
Harper stares into the house, looking for the cat, and comes inside readily when I give her a little tug. I shut and lock the door behind us and there’s Marmalade, sitting on the couch, head high, like he’s the king of his domain and not a cat who took one look outside, realized he has no idea where he is, and got scared.
This is a very good sign that he won’t give me too much trouble about being an indoor cat.
Harper runs over and pets Marmalade gently, like she’s learned how to do with frequent visits to the Weston Farm and to the homes of friends with pets.
