Page 158 of 10 Rings I Hate About You
He gathered himself—front paws forward, a brief anticipatory butt wiggle—and jumped. Landed. Not surprisinganyone, he circled once and settled, folding himself neatly along the length of her back like he’d done it a hundred times before.
Ms. Kline made a sound.
I ran through my options.
Option one: remove Henderson. Outcome: Henderson would resist. Disruption would be worse than the current situation, and either I or a volunteer might have cat scratches we may not want to deal with.
Option two: leave Henderson where he was. Part of animal yoga was for the animals to be free to do what they wanted. I just wished he’d chosen a different friend to curl up on.
Ms. Kline squeaked, and Henderson immediately lay down like he’d found his forever home.
“He’s chosen you,” Glamma announced, at a volume calibrated for a room much larger than this. “Cats don’t just sit on anyone. That’s good luck.”
Mr Geraldi turned toward her.
Glamma met him with a serene smile, and even though it seemed impossible, it was like she and Henderson had been in cahoots.
Ms. Kline tilted her head sideways, not quite far enough to see Henderson.
Henderson opened one eye and regarded her. Then he closed it again with the finality of a decision made—and one that would not be reversed.
“Is he … Can someone … um?” Ms. Kline asked.
“Well, we can look at it as therapeutic intervention,” Delaney said with a chuckle, stepping beside her.
Henderson, in the way that cats change their mind constantly, stood up, turned twice in a tight circle, and lay back down.
Ms. Kline went very still beneath him. Her shoulders lifted slightly with her next breath. Held. Then eased back down as herhands relaxed against the mat, and she incorporated Henderson into her pose.
“Okay,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. Her eyes closed again, and Glamma nodded her approval.
Mr. Geraldi uncapped his pen and began to take notes.
Delaney caught my eye over Ms. Kline’s occupied back. I gave a firm nod when she held up a treat bag and shook it.
Then Henderson opened both eyes. Josh smirked at me, and I was already internally creating comebacks to the sarcastic comments he’d make when the night was over.
Delaney held out her handful of treats. Henderson, now fully interested, stood and sprang off the committee member’s back. He landed clean, tail high, and ambled his way over to get the snack in Delaney’s hand.
Noble went rigid beside me. Eleven minutes. I’d been counting. Eleven minutes before he began vibrating with barely contained energy. His energy had built in steady increments with each passing second—muscles tightening, tail swishing intensely, and while I maintained my grip on his collar, he maintained his focus on Mr. Geraldi as if he had identified his person for the evening and was simply waiting for the right moment.
What I had not anticipated was that after spending the last four years working at the shelter—and throughout the time I’d observed Noble—that I’d completely misjudged his capabilities and constraints. He was a senior dog. He had three legs. His steering was aspirational at best.
What I had underestimated was his motivation.
One second, he was beside me. The next, his front legs had committed to going forward while his back end tried to keep up. I tightened my grip on his collar, but he kept going. I adjusted my stance, recalibrated, and applied more force. And he still kept tugging me forward. This was a three-legged dog generatingmore forward propulsion than should have been mechanically possible.
“Noble,” I said, using the tone that typically resulted in compliance.
His ear curved toward me, and I knew damn well he heard me, and understood me, but the ear turned away, and so did he.
My shoes shifted half an inch across the floor.
Then another. I was losing ground. Rapidly. I tripped over my own foot. The floor rushed up to meet me. And there was no time to catch myself. As I laid sprawled out on the floor, Noble took the opportunity to run.
One second, he was contained, and the next, he was off like a heat-seeking missile. He reached Mr. Geraldi, who had his back turned, and then launched himself with everything he had.
Both front paws made contact somewhere around Mr. Geraldi’s lower back. He had not known enough to brace for impact. He wobbled. Caught himself. Wobbled again. Each time it looked like he had stabilized, then Noble pushed a little harder, and gravity won Mr Geradi’s tenuous battle. His arms flew out, launching his clipboard flying one way and his water bottle the other. He performed a full three-hundred-and-sixty-degree rotation that I could only describe as a controlled spiral before his feet lost the battle with gravity and he went down.
