Page 68 of Something Borrowed

It was the first time Vic had ever felt annoyed with Cal. “It doesn’t matter if it’s ‘tough’ or feral and ‘used’ to it. That doesn’t make it right. They’re domesticated animals.”

Cal dipped his head. “Okay, yeah, you’re right. That’s true.”

“Audra says it’s been hanging around for days—and that it’s been trying to get into the house.”

“Do you want it to come in? You did tell me you were thinking of getting a cat.” Cal’s eyes crinkled, and Vic wasn’t sure if he was joking or serious.

“Yeah, but I hadn’t really moved past the maybe stage—and even then, I was envisioning a cute, clean kitten with its shots and everything.”

Vic studied the dark backyard again. The LED Christmas lights she’d strung on the porch were merry looking, but they didn’t throw a lot of light. And it was snowing harder again, with the forecast predicting Arctic outflows. But then again, Cal was probably right. If the cat had survived this long, it must have some sort of shelter or food source. Maybe it was just an opportunist. One of those cats that had a home but went house to house looking pathetic, getting extra meals and spoiling.

“Well, what’s the verdict?” Cal asked. “Do you want to try to cajole him out of hiding or leave him be?”

“I don’t know. What do you think?”

Cal shrugged. “It’s up to you. You sounded concerned, though.”

“Despite thinking of getting a cat, I don’t have a lot of experience with them—or pets of any kind, really.”

The attentiveness in his demeanor made her continue.

“Michael would’ve loved one, but he had allergies, so we had fish. I haven’t had a pet since I was a little kid.”

“But you did have one when you were a kid?”

“Yeah.” Vic smiled at the memory. “When I was eight or so, I had a huge orange guy that I named Buffy. He was a total baby and so hilarious. He was a big bully to all the dogs and other cats in the area, but with me he was a total softie. He not only used to let me dress him up in doll clothes, he literally came running when he heard the latches click on the little suitcase I kept them in. He liked being dressed up.”

Vic giggled, remembering Buffy streaking toward her and her suitcase as clearly as if it was yesterday. She couldn’t believe she’d almost forgotten.

“Have you ever seen a cat in a baby sleeper? It’s the funniest, silliest, cutest thing ever.” It was something she would paint.

Cal’s eyes were warm on hers. “He sounds awesome, Vic.”

“He was.”

“What happened to him?”

A sharp pang of pain and guilt stabbed Vic. “He got fleas, so Audra got rid of him one day when I was at school. She gave him to a friend of hers with a farm, but he wasn’t used to being an outdoor cat and he . . .” Vic trailed off, feeling sick. This was exactly why she didn’t dwell on happy Buffy memories and had tried to forget. “He climbed into a car engine to sleep, probably because it was warm. The driver didn’t know, and when they came out and started the car again, Buffy got hurt by the fan belt and died.”

Cal looked horrified. His voice was hushed and raw. “Aw, Vic, no . . . I’m so sorry. That’s terrible.”

She nodded. “Yeah . . . and I didn’t really have the heart for another pet. Now, of course, I’m like, why didn’t she just get flea powder or something, but that wasn’t really her way.”

“Well, it sounds to me like you have your answer.”

Vic cocked her head.

“Seems like the perfect time to try again. Who knows, he—or she—might not come to the door, but they might.”

Vic scrunched her face in indecision.

Cal put his hand on her shoulder, as if he’d read her thoughts. It was heavy and warm. Comforting.

“If you manage to lure it with food, if it’s truly wild or injured or something, you can always turn it in to the animal shelter. It’s better than letting it suffer.”

Vic’s heart raced. Was she really going to do this? Then again, Cal was right. It was a low-risk venture. Besides, most likely nothing would come of trying. The rat-cat was probably long gone.

She turned her attention back to the shadows beyond the porch. All was still. Leaving the Christmas lights on, she flicked the outdoor porch light on. A mishmash of pawprints decorated the powdery snow that had gusted onto the porch through its railing despite its roof. Then they disappeared over the edge, only to show up again a few feet away—a clear trail showing the animal’s rapid retreat to beneath the hedge that framed half the backyard.