Page 17 of Karma Kitty Christmas
“Are you hungry?” Because lunch was coming, and Isaac had a tuna sandwich sitting in the cooler in his drawer, and he’d been thinking about reasons not to eat it.
The cat cocked his head, so Isaac reached into his drawer for the sandwich.
Which was when Roxy glanced up. “No… wait, Isaac, you don’t really want to—”
Isaac pulled off a little piece of sandwich, and the cat took it delicately from his fingers.
“Feed the cat,” Roxy finished, grimacing.
He stared at her. “Why?”
“Because, you idiot, that’s how the cat distribution system works! The cat sees you, you feed it, and you are obligated to the thing for life.”
Isaac paused, the next piece of tuna sandwich on his fingertips, and the cat stood up on its hind legs and relieved him of the burden.
Isaac stared down at the thing, who was licking his whiskers with a fastidious pink tongue, although he appeared a little bit dusty and travel-worn.
“Really?” he asked the cat. “Do you have some sort of nefarious agenda to become my cat?”
The cat reached up, claws sheathed, and started to pull at his fingers for more sandwich, which Isaac quickly gave.
“I guess so,” he said, surprised, before looking back at Roxy. “Uhm….”
Roxy was already packing up her stuff. “I’ll be back,” she said resignedly. “With some pet supplies, a box, and some takeout so you eat. Don’t worry, Isaac. I’ve got three kids, two cats, and a Labrador retriever. I know how this works.”
And she was gone before he could feed his new cat another piece of sandwich.
BY THEtime Roxy got back, loaded down with a crate and flea treatment and a week’s worth of food, Isaac had a feeling for this cat. Handsome, vain, unflappable, Euclid (as Isaac was calling him now) seemed to have an innate “chill factor” that had apparently garnered him more than one tuna fish sandwich.
But that didn’t mean he wasn’t willing to leap into Isaac’s lap to petition for more.
Isaac got a good look at him while he was there, saw some battering around his ears, a few scars under the fur of his face, and felt a certain boniness under his dusty fur, all of which indicated tuna sandwiches might be few and far between.
He was also—quite obviously—intact, and Isaac knew enough aboutthataspect of cats to know that condition needed to be nipped in the bud—or nipped under the butt, as it were. To that end, he was balancing the cat on his lap and his cell phone in his ear as he called the vet near his house to see if they could book an appointment for a new rescue for—as the receptionist called it—a bath and snip.
They had an opening that very day after school. He could pick the animal up at seven.
He thought regretfully about his knitting time with Luca. It had only been two days out of the week, but Luca had promised to be by that evening to get help on a tricky part of the scarf.
But then he held out his finger, and Euclid rubbed his whiskers against it and purred, and then did it again.
“Sure,” he said into the phone. “I can be there at three thirty.”
The receptionist signed off, and Isaac gazed helplessly at Roxy. “Are you sure this is how the cat distribution system works?” he asked.
“I dare you to contradict me,” she told him. “Now give me the cat, go wash your hands, and eat this teriyaki bowl before the bell rings. You owe me a lunch hour, so you know.”
The cat had an entire fan club before fifth period was seated, and Isaac was relieved that, once the lid of the crate had been taken off and a cat bed—laced with some catnip—had been installed, Euclid was content to sit there and be stoned for his people.
So maybe more kids stared at the cat than heard his instructions—fact was, this close to summer vacation, having an excuse to keep them quiet during seatwork was therealmiracle, and he was calling it a win.
For sixth period, Marcelle strode into the classroom, gave the cat a double take, and then laughed low in his throat likehe’d just gotten laid on the drama room couch and nobody had caught him. (At least Isaac knew that was howhehad spent his lunches in high school, and he had it on good authority from the beleaguered drama teacher that a blacklight would make the couch look like a Jackson Pollack painting, and she didn’t even want to know.)
“What’s so funny?” Isaac asked warily.
“Well, for one thing, I see the cat distribution system is still working,” Marcelle told him. “And for another, that department head lady who thinks she’s hot shit—”
“Ms. Lamphere?” Isaac clarified.
