“He likes walks,” the worker says brightly. “Put a harness and a leash on him, and he’ll strut right along beside you.”
I glance at the cat. He blinks back, smug as sin.
“Figures,” I mutter as the cat purrs louder.
And just like that, I know I’m not leaving with the big, scary dog I came for. I’m leaving with a rag doll cat.
After more paperwork than necessary, I take Sir Sassafras out to my SUV, where he rides shotgun in a borrowed carrier that smells like wet fur and despair.
The entire drive to the pet store, he stares at me like he’s assessing whether I’m worth the emotional labor of retraining.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter. “You’re not exactly low-maintenance yourself.”
This time, when I get to the pet store, I use the handicapped placard. I don’t want to, but between the discomfort and the fact that I’m going to be carrying a big ass cat makes me pick the easiest option I have available.
The second we’re through the sliding doors, I make the mistake of setting the carrier down to open it.
He bolts.
He doesn’t go far, just a few aisles down, moving with that weird three-legged hop-and-glide gait that somehow still manages to look graceful.
A teenage employee rushes over, eyes wide. “Sir, your cat—”
“He’s recovering from trauma,” I say flatly. “We’re here for retail therapy. Let him process.”
Sir Sass completely ignores the toys. He walks past the fake mice and sniffs at a laser pointer with what I can only assume is mild disgust. He pauses at the scratching posts, gives one a disdainful sniff, then moves on with the slow certainty of a king inspecting his domain.
He stops dead in front of a rack of clothes full of tiny sweaters, costumes, and jackets.
I freeze.
“No,” I say as if he can understand me. “Absolutelynot.”
He looks up at me, maintaining unblinking direct eye contact, then headbutts a miniature leather jacket covered in silver studs.
“I’m not that kind of man,” I insist. “I’m not—”
He shoves the jacket off the hook with his one front paw and stares at me likeyou are now.
I rub my jaw and look around to make sure no one’s watching.
“Pick a damn toy,” I hiss.
He doesn’t move.
Ten minutes later, I’m at the checkout with a laser pointer, a plush raccoon, some cat necessities, and absolutelynocat jacket. He’s back in the carrier, sitting like a disappointed mentor whose pupil failed the test.
I lift the carrier into the passenger seat and buckle the seatbelt around it, out of habit.
“You were supposed to be a dog,” I mutter as I pull onto the road.
A deep, rumbling purr rolls out of the carrier.
I glance over at him. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t gloat.”
He blinks up at me like he’s sayingtoo late.
I sigh. “Therapy didn’t cover this.”
