“She didn’t scream or have a meltdown, so I’m considering that a win,” I tell the cat. He just closes his eyes and resumes his motor-like purring.
*****
Some weird sort of pet-mom instincts kicked in overnight, and I kept waking up to check on the cat and make sure he was okay. He seemed perfectly comfortable sleeping in my room, and ended up curled tightly beside me in bed. He even used the newspaper I laid down in the corner—thanks, Google.
First thing in the morning, I pay a visit to JJ, the superintendent of my building. When I ask if he knows anyone here with a black cat, he strokes his stubbled chin, thinking. “Mrs. Gunderson in 402 got a cat not long ago,” he says. “Haven’t seen it yet, though, so don’t know if it’s black.”
I explain what happened last night, and he says he’ll ask around for me while I’m at work. I’d go to Mrs. Gunderson’s myself, but it’s not even eight o’clock. She’s kind of terrifying at the best of times, so I’m not exactly eager to show up at her door unannounced, especially if I happen to rouse her from bed.
Celia is up when I return to the apartment. She eyes me warily as I inform her in my best no-nonsense voice I’ll be letting the cat out so my room doesn’t end up reeking of cat pee. Surprisingly, she doesn’t argue. I’d made up my mind if she disagreed I was going to sendherto deal with Mrs. Gunderson.
I leave work in the early afternoon—another instance of benefiting from having your best friend as your boss—and check in with JJ when I arrive at my building. He tells me he knocked on Mrs. Gunderson’s door a few times throughout the day, but there was no answer.
“Just between you and me,” he says, glancing around the hallway and lowering his voice, “I think she was home and ignoring me. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”
I let out a sound somewhere between a whine and a groan. “Will you come with me? Please?”
He’s chuckling and shaking his head before I even get the words out. “No can do, Ivy. Just before you got here, I was called to the fun task of checking out a clogged toilet on the fifth floor.”
“I’ll trade you,” I mutter. He laughs again and motions me toward the elevator. We ride together, and he wishes me luck when I get off on the fourth floor. I stand outside 402, gathering my courage before knocking. Through the door, I can just make out the sound of dramatic music, followed by heated arguing. Soap opera time?
The minute I knock on the door, silence falls inside. After waiting a reasonable amount of time for Mrs. Gunderson to reach the door, I knock again. I resist the urge to call out that I know she’s in there. I’m about to knock a third time when the door swings open, startling me so badly I gasp and jump back.
“Are you the one who’s been banging on my door all day?” Mrs. Gunderson asks in her pack-a-day voice. The scent of stale cigarette smoke wafts into the hall, nearly choking me. Her bent form is clothed in a flower-print housecoat and matching slippers. Her steel-gray hair is pulled into a messy updo with wiry escapees framing her wrinkled face.
“No, that was JJ, the super.” There’s a slight tremor in my voice—how embarrassing. Mrs. Gunderson may look like a harmless old lady, but her eyes are shrewd, and I’ve heard her threaten to hit people with her cane.
Her eyes narrow to slits. “What do you want?”
“I was wondering if you have a missing cat or know someone who might,” I say. “All black, maybe a year old.” That last part is a guess on my part based on the cat’s size. He’s definitely underfed, but even then I’m thinking he’s too small to be a full-grown cat.
I wouldn’t have thought it was possible for her eyes to narrow further and still stay open, and yet they do. She purses her thin, wrinkled lips. Silence stretches between us during which I wonder if I should repeat the question. Finally, she says, “Sounds like my cat. Disappeared last night, figured she must have got out the window.”
She.Oops. I didn’t even think to check, I just assumed. “Okay, well, I’ll go get her.” Mrs. Gunderson doesn’t say anything, so I head for the stairs. When I open my apartment door, the cat runs down the hall to greet me, winding around my feet and rubbing her face against my leg. “Hey there, you.” I set down my purse and bend to scoop her up. “That’s a nice greeting. Don’t tell Celia, but I think you’re a better roommate.” I bury my face in her fur, suddenly sad I have to return her. Part of me wishes I hadn’t gone looking for her owner; she didn’t have an ID tag, after all.
I fight an inner war with myself all the way back to Mrs. Gunderson’s apartment. I’m not a cat person. I have enough going on right now with two jobs, Celia, and a sort-of boyfriend. I don’t know the first thing about taking care of an animal.
The cat is purring, her eyes closed in contentment by the time I knock on Mrs. Gunderson’s door again. The moment the old woman appears, the cat’s eyes fly open and she begins struggling in my arms. I tighten my grip on her and move closer to the door, nearly gagging on the stench of cigarette smoke. The cat’s wide eyes meet mine, and I swear if cats could feel betrayal, this one is trying to telepathically tell me I just stabbed her in the back.
After a struggle, during which the cat starts to emit a low growling sound, Mrs. Gunderson snatches her from my arms. She snarls a quick “Thanks” and then slams the door in my face.
