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When he tries to throw the cat-ball, I tackle him to the ground. The gratification quickly morphs to mortification because when we hit the ground, we’re both naked. Apart from the helmet. He’s still wearing that. I shake off the dream and get ready for my day.
Hattie’s already in the kitchen, slathering butter on toast. She slaps on some avocado and tomato slices, covers it with another slice of toast, and wraps a paper towel around it. She kisses me on the cheek, gives Mom a hug from behind, and rushes to the door. “I’ll be home for dinner. Text me if you need me to pick anything up. Love you both. Bye!”
“Have a good day and drive safe!” Mom sips her coffee and flips to the obituary section of the newspaper. It’s a morbid way to start the morning, but it’s part of her routine.
“Egg and cheese on an English muffin?” I ask as I pour myself a cup of coffee. We take turns making breakfast for each other.
“I’m easy. Whatever works for you.” Mom smiles, but her focus is on the paper.
It only takes a few minutes to get breakfast ready and bring it to the table. The chair that my dad used to sit in is always set with a placemat, and his favorite mug sits empty in the center. Sometimes I wonder if it’s become such an ingrained part of her routine that she doesn’t even realize she still does it.
“Do you have a busy day?” she asks conversationally, setting the paper aside so she can eat.
“Just my usual rounds, plus that new client I picked up, but I’ll be home early enough to help with dinner. I need to do an inventory check later, so I can make space in the garage.” It’s where I keep most of my cat-sitting supplies. It’s also where all the sponsorship overflow items are stored. At this point I’ve filled the entire garage and part of the basement.
“Space?” Mom perks up.
“I have a new order coming in.”
“Oh.” She deflates. “Will you need help with that? Do we need more shelves in there?”
“I should rent a storage unit.” When I started the Kitty Whisperer four years ago, I assumed it would be my side hustle, not my full-time job. And for a while it was a part-time thing. I also worked in an office, organizing schedules. It was not riveting work. When it seemed like I was going to have to either step into one role or the other, I made the decision to go out on my own. And now here I am, running my own business. I never expected to make an actual living. Or to basically take over part of my mom’s house, and that’s with my office space being at Kat’s.
Mom waves a hand around in the air. “You don’t need to do that. We have the space.”
“It’d be nice if you could park your car in the garage in the winter, though.” Especially when there are three vehicles to push snow off and move around when there’s a storm. The garage was supposed to be a temporary home for my business supplies.
“Eh, I’ve survived this long. What’s a couple more years?” She pats my hand and takes another bite of her sandwich. “This is great, by the way.”
“I’m glad you like it.” I focus on my own sandwich for a moment, mulling over that last comment about a couple more years. I shouldn’t read into that. I’m in my midtwenties. I don’t intend to live at home forever, but it seems like I’m being given a timeline. Two years isn’t unreasonable, so I’m not sure why her comment unsettles me.
We finish breakfast, and I load the dishwasher while she washes the pans. And then I’m off to see my first four-legged furball of the day.
Bumbles is a striped tabby with a scrunched-up face and a slightly surly demeanor. He’s the cat version of Miles. His owner is an elderly man who has severe cataracts and only partial vision, so I stop by on a regular basis to help tend to Bumbles’s needs.
I ring the doorbell and wait for Mr. O’Toole to open the door. It often takes a few minutes for that to happen. I check my messages and find I have a new one from Miles.
I don’t love the silly fluttery feeling in my stomach. As a result, I hold off on checking it. I’m about to ring the doorbell a second time, worried about the possibility that Mr. O’Toole has lost his hearing aids again, or worse. He’s ninety.
The tough part about working with a lot of elderly people is that they occasionally have accidents. I’ve yet to be the one to find a client in a serious state, thankfully, but I’ve been on the receiving end of a few sad phone calls. Those are always hard to handle. While I spend the most time with their pets, I still get to know their owners and we share a special bond because of our cat love.
