Two Lonely Mammals

It’s 7 o’clock. It’s been dark for two hours. I’d like to tell you I’m not still in my bathrobe at this hour or that, as the robe’s name implies, some sort of personal hygiene has taken place at any point today, but I can’t — because I am, and it didn’t. I slept until two.

Standing in front of my bedroom window, staring at my reflection in the glass, I fuss with my hair and ponder what it would be like to be someone whose circadian rhythm and willpower were each strong enough to keep a routine rather than come undone at the first taste of freedom from my nine to five.

This is day eleven of sixteen of my vacation to nowhere. It’s glaringly obvious I’m in a funk that is going to take more than two weeks of PTO to overcome, I’m now at the point where resting and relaxing feels more akin to aimless sloth, and my impending return to work is looming too close for comfort.

My stomach growls as if to remind me that acting as a harbor for a anxiety is not its only purpose. I let my robe fall to the floor and only think to scurry away from the window as I feel its draft on my naked body. I dress absentmindedly, picking a combination of items littered across my bedroom floor that I’ve rejected in days past. Jeans with holes in the knees created organically through wear and tear. Lacy black bra. A scratchy, striped, knit sweater rescued from Goodwill that definitely belonged to someone’s dad in its past life.

The highlight of my staycation thus far has been my nightly walk to the corner grocery. I never bother to stock up on anything, and when I get there, I let impulse guide me. A pint of ice cream and a bottle of wine a dinner does make. I think tonight I’ll opt for Pinot and cookie dough.

My mouth curls into a subtle smile as the door to my building clicks shut and I take my first deep breath of crisp cool January evening air.

I’m three blocks down the street and halfway to my destination before I realize I missed him. The cat. I stop abruptly and look back. Why didn’t I see the glow from the front window?

My favorite part of the day may be this walk, but the best part of the walk is Butternut. I don’t know what his real name is, but he looks like a squash – orange and bulbus. His human, a little old lady, lives on the bottom floor of a previously grand but now unremarkable three-story that has since been split into several small rental units. Her name is Dolores, probably. From the sidewalk I can see into her picture window. Every evening for the last week it’s been aglow, and Butternut is stretched out on the windowsill staring right at me. I pause, wave, ask him about his day, and swear he listens. Tonight, the window is dark.

I strain my eyes to see if he’s on the sill, but it’s too dark to tell. I wait a moment more and then head on my way. I feel heavier than I should as my feet wander the store aisles.

Dolores went to bed early.

I place the cookie dough ice cream I’d promised myself into my basket.

He’s curled up at the foot of her bed.

Bottle of wine.

He doesn’t care about our visits like I do.

A can of seafood medley cat food.

He’ll be there tomorrow.

I fall asleep thinking about the next day’s walk. I’ll introduce myself. Leave a note for Dolores and a treat for Butternut. Find out each of their real names.

In the morning, as I sit crisscross applesauce on my kitchen chair sipping my coffee, I scribble a short note:

Hello. I live down the street. Your cat is adorable. I hope he likes tuna and whitefish.

I sign my name and, for whatever reason, jot down my phone number. I tuck the note under the pull tab of the cat food can and go about my day. Anticipation for my evening walk is enough to encourage a burst of productivity that hurries the day along. I make the bed for the first time in weeks. When the time comes, I’m already dressed, note and cat food in hand. I won’t scold Butternut for being away last night. I’ll just be happy to see little round face again.

The window is dark.

Rather than jump to worry, my mind focuses on the flaw in my plan. I had something for Butternut, but nothing for Dolores. At the store I pick up a small potted plant with flowers the shade of purple that is somehow every old lady’s favorite. I’ll get an earlier start tomorrow.

I am at the window by three. I can see clearly even from the sidewalk that the room is empty. I leave my offerings on the front porch and head home. I skip the grocery and dinner. One night turns into two. I stay home wrapped in blankets on my couch and imagine Dolores content in her chair, purple flowers blooming, and Butternut’s tummy full of tuna.

The next morning, the vibration of my phone catches my attention. It’s a local number.

Dolores!

Except it isn’t. After my exuberant hello, a man’s voice follows. “Hi there,” he pauses before going on. “I found your note. I’m David, the landlord at 316 Quimby.”

Assuming he didn’t like me leaving litter on the porch, I nervously apologize, “I’m sorry. The first-floor apartment. The cat. I –.” He stops me.

“I don’t know why I’m calling, but I thought you should know.” I wait. “The tenant on the first floor died three days ago.” My heart sinks. “There’s no one.” He sighs. “I have people coming tomorrow to clean, put everything in storage. I’ll take care of her things, but, the cat –.”

“I’m on the way.”

When I arrive, David is sitting on the porch steps, head down, staring at the key in his hands. “It’s unlocked,” he says without looking up or inviting further conversation.

My breath catches in my throat as I place my hand on the apartment’s doorknob and step inside. It’s small and tidy but smells exactly how you’d expect – floral perfume, mothballs, and unscooped cat litter. There’s no sign of Butternut. My note, the plant, and the can of cat food are, however, clearly visible on the counter. As soon as the can tab pops, a curious “Mrrrrrpbt,” comes from under the bed immediately followed by a very hungry cat.

While he eats, I stand at the apartment’s picture window taking in Butternut’s evening view thinking about how much his life has just changed and why the universe brought us together. I pick up a crocheted blanket from the back of the couch. It’s covered in cat hair, so I know he likes it. It feels wrong to take anything from the apartment until I reason that I’m sure Dolores would want him to have it.

Down the hallway I find the litterbox in a small coat closet whose door has been left ajar. On the top shelf is a cat carrier and a shoebox. After a quick inspection, the box seems to be mostly all cat belongings. A brush. A pipette of flea ointment. A felt mouse. A small black notebook that is likely vet records. I close the box without further inspection.

Surprisingly, Butternut obliges my first attempt to shuffle him into the carrier. Not wanting keep David waiting, I tuck the shoebox and the blanket under my arm, grab the carrier, and head for the door. On my way out, I grab the potted plant too. Nothing else dies here, not if I can help it.

It’s a precarious balancing act I’ve set up for myself, especially as I navigate around David, who is still sitting on the steps and once again neither says a word nor offers to help.

“Thank you.” I say it in my most gracious tone, not wanting him to think I’m being sarcastic about his lack of spacial awareness.

“Sure.”

I amble awkwardly down the sidewalk pondering whether or not I should have encouraged David to call me if someone turned up.

As soon as he’s free, Butternut scurries under the bed. I leave him to get settled and run out to pick up essentials. Dinner for me. Litterbox for Butternut.

Later, the can of cat food isn’t the dinner bell it was before. Butternut stays under the bed. I lay down flat on my stomach to check on him. He’s big-eyed and understandably confused but otherwise unscathed. I hear him exploring the apartment as I drift to sleep, but when I wake Sunday morning, he’s retreated back to his hiding spot.

I make a cup of coffee and sit on the floor at the foot of the bed and talk quietly to him. “I’m sorry friend. I’m sure you miss your mom, but you’re safe here.” I take a few sips of my coffee. “I’m glad you’re here.” We sit in silence. For the first time in quite a while, I don’t feel lonely.

Just then I remember the notebook from the shoebox. Hoping it’ll tell me something about Butternut that will help him feel more at home, I grab it and settle back down on the floor. I open the first page. It’s blank. As is the next. In the midst of rapidly flipping the pages I catch one with writing. Another piece of paper, a bookmark holding the spot, falls into my lap.

If you’re reading this, take care of my cat. His name is Charlie. With love, Evelyn.

As I read the simple note my free hand finds the fallen piece of paper. It’s not a bookmark, it’s a check. A check for twenty thousand dollars written out in flowery cursive with the pay to the order of left line left blank.

As if there aren’t other questions to answer, I peer under the bed in amazement, “Your name is Charlie?”

As soon as I say his name he emerges from the bed and rubs up against my knee, as if to say, “Yes, Charlie. My mom was Evelyn, she said this check would buy me lots of food.”

Should I call David? No, I should turn this check into the bank. There’s no way this is intended for me. This is ridiculous, right? I should have purchased fancier cat food. I spend the rest of the day playing out all of the possible scenarios in my head and then talking each one through with Charlie.

I’m not sure how, but eventually I manage to fall asleep. The next morning, my first day due back at work, the sun from my bedroom window warms my face. I forgot to set my alarm. I probably should have felt immediate panic, but after the shock of yesterday, this is nothing. I roll over to check the time and notice that Charlie is asleep at the foot of my bed. It’s then that I know what I need to do.

I pull on clothes and grab my backpack. I toss the notebook and the check, my wallet, my phone, and my charger in the front pocket. I stuff the main compartment with the shoebox and the blanket. I scoop up my favorite clothing items, dirty, right off the floor and into a laundry basket. In ten minutes, my car is packed with anything that really matters including Charlie, in his carrier, in the front seat.

I look over at him. “What do you think, Charlie? Are you up for an adventure?”

“Mrrrrrpbt.”