Page 47 of 10 Rings I Hate About You
Actually, calling it attempted murder was generous. This cat—a scraggly orange tabby named Cheeto—had declared a blood feud on my footwear with the intensity of a trained assassin. Or by an animal who had been personally wronged by loafers in a previous life.
“He’s very … um … playful,” Delaney said, biting her lip.
Cheeto wrapped both front paws around my ankle and began rabbit-kicking my shin with his back legs. With purpose. With commitment. With the desire to do damage.
This cat had a goal and that was the complete destruction of my left shoe.
Now she was laughing so hard her shoulders shook, and she leaned against the wall to keep herself upright.
“This isn’t funny,” I said, pretending to be annoyed.
Delaney made a sound that was technically not a laugh. It was more like a laugh being strangled by a person completely failing at strangling it. She pressed her hand to her mouth. Her shoulders shook. She took a step back and put her weight against the wall like she needed structural support.
She was absolutely no help.
“It’s a little funny,” she managed between giggles.
“This cat is feral and a safety liability.”
This sent her fully over the edge. “He’s enthusiastic.”
Cheeto, unbothered by being described as a safety liability or feral, decided my ankle was merely base camp and began scaling my leg like I was Mount Everest and he was a very small, aggressive hiker.
I looked down at him.
He looked up at me. His wide, fully black eyes said,I have no regrets, and I would do this again.
I peeled him off my leg with both hands and held him at eye level. I kept my hold gentle, knowing how worked up he was.
Cheeto swiped at me, claws at the ready. I pulled back in time to avoid damage. “You,” I informed him, “are unpredictable, hazardous, and certainly unemployable for what we need.”
He stared at me with the flat, ancient contempt only cats and senior DMV employees have truly mastered.
Then he bit my thumb.
Not hard. Just enough to make his point.
Delaney had now slid approximately four inches down the wall.
I placed Cheeto back in his living space. He circled twice, then curled up with his butt facing us with the deliberateposition of an animal who wanted to be clear about where we ranked in his estimation.
“He rejected us,” I said with a half smile.
“He rejectedyou,” Delaney corrected, pulling herself upright, wiping at her eyes. “I’m pretty sure he and I have an understanding.”
As if on cue, Cheeto turned, looked directly at Delaney, and tipped over his water dish.
“An understanding,” I repeated.
She laughed. “Okay. He rejected us both. But you’ve got to admit he has a personality.”
I grunted. Which was not an agreement.
But I was also fighting very hard not to smile, because Delaney laughing—really laughing, shoulders-shaking, sliding-down-walls-laughing—was doing something genuinely catastrophic to my ability to maintain a neutral expression.
Cheeto was still a risk.
He was also, possibly, my favorite cat in the building.
