The Cat Lady

by Rue De Day

It's the end of another long day. I pull into the carport and head into the house. It's a pokey little place, but it's mine. I really should cut the grass, what's left of it, but that can wait. Right now I just want to put my feet up and have a drink, maybe root around the pantry and find something to eat. See if there's anything on TV.

Jiggling the key in the mystic pattern that's the only way to work the lock, I get the door unstuck and clomp in. This isn't good. I know I didn't leave the kitchen like this. Even I have standards. The window is up and the plant is in the sink. By "plant" I mean the dead thing that's been drying in the pot for six months, so the fall into the sink didn't hurt it. Slowly, the rest of the kitchen registers on my tiny brain. All of the cabinets are standing open, there are dishes and glasses pulled out everywhere. Everywhere that isn't stacked with the meager contents of my pantry. That reminds me, I really need to get to the grocery store soon. A half-eaten bowl of cereal is sitting on the counter, next to the empty milk jug. I guess I need to add milk to the grocery list.

Now I'm getting a little worried. Usually Wilma would be out to see me by now. She's good that way, letting me know when something is up. I hope she didn't jump out the window to chase my mystery cereal chef. I grab the baseball bat from behind the door and creep into my own house to investigate. Whoever worked over the kitchen made it to the front room as well. Books, movies and music lay scattered and piled around the room. If there was any order to it, it was too subtle for me to see. The ratty old blanket I keep on the couch was wadded up in a nest over by the stereo. A mug of now-cold cocoa was sitting on a pile of books near to hand. Wilma just lies around the place, she rarely redecorates, and never like this. I know she never makes herself cocoa.

That's when I hear the clip-clip of nails coming down the hall. At least Wilma's still here. I hope she's not hurt. It's just not like her to wait so long after I come home to get her ears scratched. Usually she's jumping all over me when I open the door. She sticks her head into the living room and looks around, then she gives me her "I'm so sorry" look that dogs have been perfecting for the last 50,000 years, like it's all her fault. "Who's my good dog?" I ask in that stupid voice every dog owner has used since forever. She knows she's not in any trouble for the mess and bounds over to me. After a few good scratches and a rub on that good spot on her ear she's had enough and goes back down the hall. It's unlike her to break off a good scratch like that, so I follow.

She disappears into the bathroom. If there wasn't so much obvious evidence, I'd know something was up now. She never goes in the bathroom voluntarily. "Who's my good dog?" I hear, also in that stupid voice. This has me curious. Seeing how I live alone, who would be talking to Wilma? My mysterious cereal chef maybe? I push the door all the way open. The kitchen, the front room and the bathroom all got the same treatment. Towels are strewn all over the floor and the tub is full of suds. Mostly full of suds. The tub is full of suds where it's not full of woman. A strange woman at that, not that I'm complaining mind you. I would never complain about finding a wet, naked woman in my home, even if said wet, naked woman is completely unexpected. It's just the way I am. She had one arm draped over the side of the tub, scratching the top of Wilma's head with her fingertips.

I'm not sure where the suds came from. I'm pretty sure I didn't have any bubble bath around, but I was only vaguely aware I had cocoa. Maybe she rooted around and found some bubble bath. Or she just used my shampoo. Or dish soap. Whatever she used, she used a lot. There was foam all over the bathroom. It was like an old sitcom.

The first thing I notice about this woman is her amazing green eyes. Actually that was the second thing I noticed. The first thing I noticed was really her breasts, the way only a little skin around her nipples and down to her belly button was bare along with her neck and face. Other than that, she was covered in a glossy coat of fur, wetted down and stuck nicely to her curves. A yellow and orange tabby pattern, pretty. Great, now I have a cat-girl living with me. Once they move in, there's nothing you can do about it. She had the most beautiful green eyes, somewhere between jade and emerald. Her auburn hair must tumble to her waist, the way it was wadded up under her head and spilling over the side of the tub. The tips of her ears poked out from the mass of hair, one of them had a large gold hoop. This was when she raised one leg out of the water. Very bendy to stretch like that. She pretended her knee had an itch, but I know she was just showing herself off. You know how cat-girls are.

"Hi," she said, smiling. She has little fangs too. Better and better. At least she's not a feral. I hope. "Name's Cheryl. You need to go shopping." Blunt too. Great.

"Now look..." that's as far as I got, taking a step into the bathroom, narrowly missing the pile of her clothes. It's my bathroom and she takes offense, her eyes narrowed and she growled at me, little claws popped out of her fingers. The claws didn't look like they'd kill me, but why take chances? I stumbled back into the hall, tripping over her clothes. No panties I notice as I fall to the floor. Sometimes I'm just observant as Hell.

"Hey! Watch it!" cried the cat-girl, sitting up in the tub, splashing suds all over the tiles. "Those boots are expensive!"

Watching her drip on my floor, fur matted down, and eyes glowing was almost worth the fall. Almost. I had a good view of her breasts from the floor, too. An added bonus. As nice as the fall of her hair and her glittering eyes. Then she settled back down into the hot water and rested her chin on her hands over the side of the tub. The view changed with her sinking into the water. Not that I minded all that much. She has amazing eyes.

"Are you OK?" Oh, she cares.

"Yeah," I had to admit.

"Good," and she smiled her heart-breaking smile.

I had to smile back.

That's how Wilma and I got adopted by a cat-girl. Not much has changed around here. I have to keep more milk and chocolate in the house. I did teach her to clean up after herself, mostly. She... well, she's a cat-girl, she does what she wants. Sometimes, when the mood takes her, she jumps in my lap and I have to rub and scratch her until she purrs. Sometimes she rubs and scratches me until I purr. Usually she stays out all night and just drags herself home at first light. I can tell when she gets in, Wilma goes to see her. The the stereo comes on and she goes through my CD collection. Sometimes she even puts a few away. It's not so bad waking up to Bonnie Raitt or Enya or even Bella Fleck. It's when she starts out with "The 1812 Overture" I know it's going to be a long day.

I still haven't been able to explain her to my parents. I don't think they'd understand.