Alley Cat

Luka Russo works at a five star restaurant a couple streets down. I come there to eat when times are especially tough, like when it’s dead of winter and all the food in my designated dumpster is frozen solid or too rotten to stomach. I only eat there when I really have to. Accepting charity’s not really my thing, even if the food is five star quality.

The restaurant looks like it’s been there for ages. It’s got a nice rustic look to it with its Sicilian wooden frame and painted grape vines wrapping the interior like a wine vineyard. Everything about it screams obnoxious luxury, from its candle-lit tables for two to its glittering chandelier. It’s all a humble facade. The restaurant’s barely three years old and it’s owned by the richest immigrants of all of Sicily. They recently moved to New York City to expand their fortunes, by luring foolish Americans and appealing to their most vulnerable spot, their stomachs.

The fact that the entire Russo family looks like they came straight out of a lifestyle magazine pisses me off. They’re all blessed with crystal clear skin and chiseled jawlines. Milani suits and Calvin Clein dresses make up their daily attire. And worst of all? They’re rich! I hate rich people. When you’ve been alive for as long as I have, you learn that rich people are total assholes. For example, I met Napoleon Bonaparte back before he became Emperor of France and started the French Revolution and all of that death-to-the-aristocracy bullshit. Monsieur Bonaparte had the audacity to call me a ‘stupide indian’ when I refused to move out his way. Boy, did he regret it. By the time I was finished with him, he was sorry he ever met me. Let’s just say that there’s a reason why he’s known as ‘Petit Bonaparte’. I may have tweaked a vertebrae or two.

Anyways, I think I’ve been clear enough about my indifference for the rich and good looking. I lead the cat to Russo’s and we wait behind the back door. The cat looks at me with its hungry gray eyes and asks me, Should we knock?

I rap the door three times and transform back to my cat form. The light emanating from my body is blinding and it forces the blue cat to look away. My hoodie and jeans slip off my body into a loose pile. My shoes roll further away into the alleyway. By the time I’m finished, I’m covered all over in black fur. I bat my green eyes to shoo away the spots floating in my field of vision. By the time my vision solidifies, I’m faced to face with the blue cat.

He looks at me with curiosity and not with the slightest degree of fear. I judge rashly and think him stupid. Fear isn’t shameful; it’s survival. Cats learn to fear anything that reminds us of our impending doom. Yet this cat refuses to budge. His gray eyes are too soft with the milk of kindness and I can tell by his round figure that he’s lived amongst humans before. He smiles at me, causing his furry lips to curl at his cheeks. It makes me feel a certain way in which I can’t describe; I hate it.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” My words translate into a hiss. I sound harsher than I mean to, but I remind myself that it’s necessary. I have to show him that I’m not a cat to be messed with. Respect is earned through fear.

The cat isn’t moved. He still smiles and sways his long blue tail. Can you teach me how to do that?

“Do what?”

Turn human. He says this with simplicity as if he’s only asking me for a small favor. I’m startled by his request, but it doesn’t take me long to relax. I feel my guard lowering down just slightly. The lack of intelligence in his eyes puts me at ease.

“You’re a cat,” I say with a snarky huff.

So are you.

“No I’m not. I’m a––”

I’m interrupted by a drawn-out squeaking door hinge. The cat and I turn our heads to the sound and see Luka standing at the doorway. When he sees us waiting at his feet, a shy smile rises to his lips and he runs his hand through his dark springy curls. I’m immediately taken by the gentleness in his expression and the small jolt of excitement lighting his espresso brown eyes. Every muscle in my body freezes and regret nags me in the back of my mind. I wish I hadn’t come.

Luka retreats back into the kitchen, leaving the back door halfway open. The cat looks at me with disappointment. I thought you said we’ll get free food.

My voice finds its way back to me. “Just give him a moment.”

Luka comes back after a few minutes with two small shallow bowls. I can’t see what kind of food it is, but the smell wafts to my nose. My stomach rumbles so loud that I mistake it as an earthquake. I have lived through that too.

“Gatti!” Luka calls us to come forth and I watch the blue cat gallop to Luka’s ankles. It takes every ounce of discipline to remain where I am. I won’t allow myself to eat his food. Not after everything that’s happened to me. I try to convince myself that I’m fine, that I don’t need this food. I remember that I’ve forsworn contact with humanity. I am willing to live out the remainder of my final life alone with no help from anybody but myself.

My stomach tears itself apart inside of me, and I yelp. I smell the food from where I am. Notes of red wine and pan seared salmon entice me although I refuse vehemently. My eyes water. I feel faint. I want to give into the urge and eat. For ages, I haven’t tasted warm food prepared by loving hands. I only have a faint but distinct memory of someone cooking for me. An invisible dagger stabs my heart. I remember that no one loves me.

Luka calls me over, but I look down at the concrete. My body shakes although I don’t know from what. From sadness? Hunger? Fatigue? I have lived so long that I have felt every pain in existence, physical and emotional, that it all blurs together into a cohesive undistinguishable mess.

Luka gives me one last sympathetic look and leaves my bowl for me before returning back to the kitchen. The door closes behind him and I run. Without his eyes and his judgement, my will snaps in two. I run to my bowl and chow down shamelessly. Notes of red wine, garlic, black pepper, and salmon flood my tastebuds. I taste a hint of lime and sea salt. It’s so good that I don’t realize I’ve eaten everything until my teeth clash against the bowl.

When I’m done, I’m overwhelmed by the weight of shame. It knocks me down to the ground and I cry. I’m embarrassed by my own hypocrisy and my weakness. I don’t understand. I’ve withstood hunger before. Why now? Why did I crack now?

The blue cat walks over to me and sits with his head between his paws. I’m annoyed by his presence. I hiss and swipe at him with my claws. He scrambles back but it’s clear that he’s not leaving.

“GO AWAY!” I hiss with each swipe.

The cat evades my swipes as best as he can but his heaviness slows him down. My claws make contact with his cheek and draws blood. I expect him to run, but he stays. He staggers from his wound and winces.

You’re stubborn, you know that?

“SO WHAT?” My claws drip with his blood. It beads at the tips and smells strongly of iron.

It’s okay to accept help sometimes. There’s nothing wrong with that.

“Well it is to me!” The area under his eye begins to swell. Remorse calms me down, but I try not to show it. “Why do you care? I don’t even like you.”

The cat looks around. Pain builds up in his expression before he admits, My owner died. We never had a home. And I...uh...I don’t have anyone.

His confession catches me by surprise. For a moment I don’t know how to respond, so I resort to basic questions. “How long were you with him?”

“A couple years. Maybe five. He didn’t have much, but he was a good man. He always took care of me first.”

It occured to me as the cat told me his story that I saw homeless people all the time. Hell, sometimes I stole food from them. I didn’t understand why I was surprised learning that his previous owner was homeless. New York wouldn’t be New York without its outrageously expensive rent and poverty and crime. Still, it touched me to know that there was someone that understood how I felt. It meant that, at more than one point, he felt my hunger and my pain and my anger.

...I’m Todd by the way. At least, that’s what my owner used to call me...BUT you can call me anything you want!

“Todd’s fine.”

Todd stares at me expectantly, swishing his tail with nervous movements. Does that mean we’re friends now?

I can’t help but smirk. “In your dreams.”

What? You think you’re better than me or something?

“Kinda. Like I tried to tell you before, I’m not a cat. I’m a werecat. I’m not all cat and I’m not all human either.”

It doesn’t seem much of a good thing if you ask me. If Todd was human, I could imagine him to have his arms crossed and his brows furrowed with a skeptical look. The thought intrigues me and warms me up a little. My frustration lightens without me realizing it.

“I’m stronger than you,” I retort with pride. “I’m a survivor. Nothing can keep me down. I’m the one that saved you from an angry pack of mutts.”

Todd considers this and I see his gray eyes light up upon the birth of a new realization. But I’m happier. And I can make you happier if you let me stick around long enough for me to prove it.

I think about this and find no problem with it. “As long as you don’t get in my way.”

Deal.

We end up exploring the city until night falls. I show him to my cardboard box which I keep hidden away behind the city’s library book drop off. I was surprised that we fit since Todd took up most of the space. I thought about kicking him out, but his body heat made up for it.

Todd has stuck around with me ever since, not that I mind. I hate to admit it, but he’s not so bad.