"Haven't seen your cat skulking around the breezeway lately," I said, trying to sound casual as I nodded toward Randy. "He doing okay?"
My neighbor looked up from the trash bag he was hauling and let out a wheezy little laugh. "Nah, the little jerk took off a week ago. Can't say I'm heartbroken about it, Dan."
I felt my jaw tighten, but I kept my expression flat. "No? Why not?" I asked. The wind whipped through the third-floor walkway, sending a spray of dead leaves skittering past our feet. Randy just shrugged, shifting the black plastic bag in his grip. The silhouette of a scratching post and a ceramic food bowl poked against the thin material.
"Trish was gonna make me drive him out to the old Miller property and dump him," he said, shaking his head. "Forty-minute drive just to leave a cat in the woods. This saves me the gas. I cracked open a six-pack to celebrate."
I didn't trust myself to say anything else. I just turned and walked back toward my apartment, the blood roaring in my ears. Dump him. Like an old mattress on the side of the road.
Two weeks earlier, I'd come home from my shift at the sorting facility to find a terrified orange tabby pressed flat against my doormat. His fur was wet from the rain, and he was shaking like a leaf. I'd seen him before. Randy and Trish called him Tiger, though "Punching Bag" seemed more accurate. They were always tossing him out of their apartment like a dirty towel. If he scratched the carpet, out he went. If he meowed too loud while they were watching Netflix, Trish would crack the door open, shove him through with the heel of her slipper, and slam it in his face.
That night, I'd crouched down and held out my hand. He flinched at first—old habits die hard—but then he bumped his wet nose against my knuckles and let out a tiny, broken purr. A man can only watch a creature get treated like garbage so many times before something snaps.
The snapping point came on a Friday. I'd had a hellish day. A forklift had clipped a stack of pallets, burying my workstation in cardboard, and the shift manager acted like it was my fault. I trudged up the stairs, rain soaking through my jacket, and there he was again. Trish had kicked him out because he "shed too much." He was huddled against the concrete wall, shivering, his eyes half-closed in defeat.
I didn't think. I just scooped him up. He was lighter than he should've been, just bones and damp fur. "Screw this," I muttered, cradling him against my chest. "You're coming with me."
I marched him right up to the fourth floor, unlocked my door, and set him down on the linoleum. At first, he just stood there, confused. He'd never been inside my place before. He sniffed the corner of the couch, his tail twitching. Then, slowly, he hopped up, kneaded the fleece blanket a few times, and curled into a tight little cinnamon roll. I stood there watching him, my heart pounding. I'd just stolen my neighbors' cat. But looking at him, safe and dry for the first time in probably his whole life, I didn't feel like a criminal. I felt like a rescue worker.
Later that night, I ran to the 24-hour grocery store and bought a bag of high-protein kibble, a litter box, and a toy mouse that rattled. I half-expected a knock on my door at dawn, or furious shouting in the hallway. I expected flashing lights, a cop asking me why I'd taken "private property." I lay awake on Saturday night, going over the story in my head: *I thought it was a stray. No, I haven't seen him. Why, is he missing?*
But the knock never came. Sunday passed in total silence. I poked my head out into the breezeway a dozen times, listening for Trish's shrill voice calling his name, or Randy's heavy footsteps stomping up and down the stairs. Nothing. The cat didn't even look at the door. He was too busy sprawled on my rug, belly up, chasing the dust motes dancing in a sunbeam. He'd already forgotten the cold concrete and the broomstick handle.
By Monday afternoon, the horrifying truth sank in: they weren't looking. They'd never post a sign, never knock on doors. But that didn't soothe my nerves—it sharpened them. Every set of footsteps in the hallway sent my pulse into my throat. For two solid weeks, I kept the blinds angled shut and the TV volume low, flinching at every thump against the wall. The anger at Randy and Trish simmered in my gut all the while, a low heat that never died down. The cat had settled into my routine, but I hadn't settled into peace.
Which brings me back to the trash bag. Randy was clearly throwing away all the cat's stuff, purging the last evidence that Tiger had ever existed in their lives. "Saved me the trip to the woods," he'd said, like the cat's disappearance was a birthday gift.
I closed my apartment door behind me and leaned against it, taking a deep breath. The anger that had been simmering in my gut for two weeks finally cooled into something else. Certainty.
Then the certainty splintered. Three sharp knocks rattled the door against my back.
My heart jammed into my windpipe. I turned and squinted through the peephole. Randy stood on the other side, his face unreadable. I opened the door a few inches, blocking the gap with my body.
"Hey, Dan, you got a second? I—" He stopped, his eyes flicking past me. I heard it before I saw his expression change: a low, questioning meow from behind the couch. The cat strolled into view, tail high, and plopped down on the mat a few feet from the door.
Randy's mouth opened and closed. "That's… that's our cat."
I didn't look away. "Was your cat," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "You were going to dump him in the woods."
"Like hell it was a plan. Trish was the one pushing for it." He took a step forward, and I stepped into the doorway, blocking him. The cat wound between my ankles, purring. "You can't just steal people's animals, man. Give him back."
"No."
The word hung between us. Randy's hands balled into fists at his sides, but he didn't swing. Maybe he saw something in my face, or maybe he just didn't care enough. He stared at the cat, who now sat at my feet blinking lazily, and the fight leaked out of him.
"He's a pain in the ass anyway," he muttered, looking away. "Fine. Keep him. But Trish is gonna be pissed."
"Tell Trish I'll send her a gift basket," I said flatly.
He turned and walked off, boots heavy on the concrete. I shut the door and locked it, then leaned my forehead against the cool wood, breathing hard. The cat rubbed against my shin and let out another rusty "mrrrow."
I found him waiting for me on the other side of the door—well, now he was right there—and a laugh finally broke through. I scooped him up and carried him to the couch. I poured myself a beer and fixed him a bowl of the good stuff—shredded chicken in gravy. He ate like he hadn't seen food in a month, then hopped onto the couch while I flipped through the channels. I settled on an old action movie and kicked my feet up on the coffee table. The cat climbed into my lap, purring like an outboard motor, and started kneading his paws into the fabric of my jeans.
After a while, he shifted, turning his back to my stomach and rolling over. He stretched out, long and lazy, and presented his belly—that soft, vulnerable patch of pale fur where the ribs used to jut out. There was no flinch, no second-guessing. He just closed his eyes and went completely limp, trusting me not to hurt him.
I gently rested my hand on his warm stomach, feeling his heartbeat flutter against my palm, and stared at the flickering TV screen without really seeing it.
