There was another one on my chest, a tabby, slightly larger. The little shit was kneading my sternum with its razor-like claws in a rhythm that was either affectionate or an attempt to tenderize me before consumption.
A third was inside my shoe. I could see a tinygray head poking out of my left sneaker, blinking at me with the calm satisfaction of an animal that had found its home and was not interested in discussing alternatives.
The fourth was on the pillow beside my head. It was asleep and curled into a cinnamon roll of fur with its nose tucked under its tail.
The fifth was nowhere to be seen.
Which probably should have worried me.
I sat up slowly, dislodging the chest kitten and scanning the room for number five. The foster room was small and functional with little more than a twin bed, a nightstand, and a bookshelf stacked with veterinary texts and what appeared to be a very organized collection of animal care supplies. Shortcake the beagle was in her crate in the corner, awake and watching me with the drowsy, post-surgical patience of a dog who had been through worse than any stranger in her room.
There was no fifth kitten.
I got out of bed, wearing the boxers and T-shirt I’d slept in, and did a visual sweep. Under the bed, I found nothing. Behind the bookshelf, still nothing. Inside the closet (which was partially occupied by a tower of neatly stacked pet food bags), nada.
Then I heard it.
A tiny, triumphant mew came fromsomewhere near the door.
I looked up.
The fifth kitten, a calico with more personality than structural integrity, perched on top of the door.
Not near the top.
On top.
He or she balanced on the one-inch-wide edge of the open door like a tiny, very fluffy tightrope walker, staring down at me with an expression that said, “I have conquered this summit and I am now your god. Worship me at your leisure.”
“How the hell—”
The kitten mewed again. It was the mew of a creature who had no intention of explaining its methods.
“The bathroom door was latched,” I said to myself and the kitten and the universe. “I specifically remember latching it because Peter told me to latch it, and I was trying to follow the rules on my very first night.”
I opened the bathroom door to investigate.
The latch was intact.
The door had been closed.
But the bathroom window, which opened onto a narrow ventilation shaft, was cracked about two inches, and there was a kitten-sized gap between thewindow frame and the screen that had clearly been exploited as an escape route.
These kittens had a system.
They’d been breaking out of this bathroom long before I arrived, and the infrastructure of their escape was more sophisticated than anything I’d achieved in my own life.
“Sneaky little shits,” I muttered.
I gathered the kittens one by one, a process that took fifteen minutes and involved me crawling under the bed for the gray one who had retreated deep into the toe of my shoe, coaxing the calico off the top of the door with a piece of string I found on the nightstand, and accepting that the orange-and-white one on my face was simply going to live there now, and I needed to make peace with that.
I deposited all five back in the bathroom, double-checked the window, latched the door, and stood in the hallway breathing like I’d just run a sprint.
It was 6:45 a.m.
From the kitchen, I heard the quiet sounds of someone already awake: the clink of a mug, the rustle of a newspaper, the soft thump of a three-legged dog resettling on the floor.
I padded into the kitchen to find Peter’s morning routine, already underway, proceeding with thecalm precision of a man whose day had not begun with a kitten on his face and another one inside his shoe.
