Martha turned up the television to mask the sound of the cat
mewing outside the door. It scratched against the glass pitifully. “How did it
even find me?” she wondered. It had been camped outside for two days. It was
like it could smell weakness.
The cat wasn’t the problem. She liked cats. She had some
milk in the fridge, and she wouldn’t mind sharing it. And there was room on the
couch. If she let it in, they could curl
up and watch Masterchef together. It would be nice.
No, the problem wasn’t the cat. It was the others.
There were already two other cats watching Masterchef on the
couch, and another drinking water from the upstairs bathroom sink. A ginger
tabby came and went through the laundry window, and a neighbourhood stray had
set up what appeared to be permanent residence in the garage. If she let this
one in, it would be six cats. And if she had six cats, she’d be crazy.
It was hard to tell where ‘lovable pet owner’ ended and
‘crazy cat lady’ began, but she’d done enough internet research to know she was
in danger of falling into the wrong category. Vets seemed to advocate less than
three cats, and almost everyone on the online forums agreed six was too many.
There was the occasional user who claimed to have ten cats and their sanity, but even Martha could tell webkat99 and
kittylurver54 seemed pretty fruity.
Outside, it started to rain.
The mewing became more pitiful, and the pawing more frantic. Eventually,
Martha relented. She let the cat in and poured a saucer of milk. As she bent down to pat the damp creature, it
arched a skinny grey back against her hand. She sighed.
On some level she knew that ‘crazy’ wasn’t about the number
of cats. Crazy was about the line. The line that everyone else could see – and
somehow she couldn’t.
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