This one's about cats.

Not dark at all this time. Whew. That was getting scary.


There was no telling with cats.

Sometimes they sat there and watched what was going on around them with moon eyes and tails twitching, and other times they slept through everything. On occasion it seemed they could sense emotions and respond accordingly, but there had been instances when, distraught and in tears, she’d had to pause in her self-pity to let a cat out to do its business. It was possible, she mused now, that this had been exactly the thing for the cat to do, because often when that happened she stood at the open door and looked out, at the trees, the yard, the cat, remembering that there was a world beyond her and her problems, and had gone inside with the cat at the conclusion of its business and been able to dry her tears.

But she had never seen a cat turn into a man, as her newest arrival had just done.

She knew she was a bit young to be a cat-lady, but she just couldn’t help herself. She’d take in any cat who wanted a place to find food and shelter, and they must have some sort of feline grapevine because more kept coming. She was not the kind of cat-lady to name all her cats and keep track of them obsessively, though she did have some idea of their numbers, and had named many of them. But some of them were so obviously passing through that she felt it rude to form attachments like names, and some she was sure had names of their own, and it would have been equally rude to give them a name. There were five that were definitely hers, and they had names she had given them and their own places to sleep or hide and she had spayed or neutered each of them. They even had collars. Then there were a further fifteen or so that came and went on a fairly regular basis, and who had a few collective food bowls set out for them. Then there were the uncountables, the masses that came on occasion or only once or twice, some of whom she had never seen, and could only identify by that much less food and a scratched tree or two.

The man sleeping on her floor was one of the uncountables, who she could just recognize by sight but who had never made himself known to her personally. As a cat he was a slender, black thing, always nervous and wary of her, so she left him a bowl out of the way of the other cats and herself. He had never looked unhealthy, not skinny and ragged and dull-coated like some strays. He looked like he belonged to someone, and that was what she had assumed until now. Today, though, he’d come limping up, streaked with blood and shyly insinuated that he’d like to be let in, which she had done, at which point he had fairly collapsed on the floor, fallen asleep, and turned into a man.

The man was stark naked, of course. If a cat turning into a man surprised her, this fact, at least, did not. He was also covered in the same kinds of scratches that the cat had had, only on a human they were much shallower, and only looked painful, not deadly. She had laid a few old towels over him, but otherwise had simply let him sleep, trying to keep herself calm as she pretended that this was normal, not cause for alarm, and she could definitely wash the dishes without looking at him more than a few times (a minute) out of the corner of her eye. Occasionally he would twitch in his sleep, and she would carefully not jump, and only hold her breath until it became apparent that he was not waking up. Until he did.

He came to instantly, like a cat, of course, and stood gracefully with no extra movement, letting the towels fall off him. She tried to stare only at his eyes, which did not look like a cat’s eyes except in the wild and wary way they were taking in the surroundings. He quickly took stock of the small apartment, and then locked eyes with her. She stared back, not moving, though she could not be certain it was only him she was trying not to startle. He stood like a cat stands, quietly, but always with the imminent threat of movement. He took a step forward, and then stumbled, caught himself, and looked back up at her with human eyes and a human stance. She relaxed marginally.

“Hello,” he said, in a deep, almost purring voice. “I think I know you. I hope I haven’t given you too much trouble.”

She shook her head, automatically, out of politeness. “Of course not.”

There was an awkward silence. She caught herself more than once having to twitch her eyes back up to his face, and he must have noticed this because suddenly, with more than a hint of a cat’s grace, he leaned down and picked up one of the towels and wrapped it swiftly around himself.

“I’m very sorry to trouble you,” he said, and though she was grateful for the towel, she still had to work to keep her eyes on his face (she was sure this tan, muscular man in front of her could not logically have an analogue in the slender thing that had entered her apartment), “but could I borrow use of your shower? And, perhaps, some clothes. I am terribly sorry to put you to all this trouble, but this was the only place I could think of to go. I was sure I wouldn’t change back, you see.” This last was said ruefully, with a little smile that made his face unbearably attractive. She swallowed.

“No problem,” she squeaked, and cleared her throat. “The bathroom’s there” she pointed “and there’s a first aid kit in there too.”

“Thank you,” he said, bowing slightly. She was more taken aback at that than perhaps anything else so far, and she almost forgot to mention the clothes.

“Oh, and I think I have some sweats that might fit you,” she added, as he was about to leave the room. He turned with that feline grace, nodded thanks, and went down the hall. She staggered back and leaned against the kitchen counter, hand to her mouth.


He reentered fifteen minutes later, clean, bandaged and wearing her sweats, which were miles too big for her but which always seemed to avoid the consignment pile. They fit him very nicely.

“Thank you very much,” he said. “I have another favor to ask you.”

She looked up from the very clean dishes she was drying and putting away, and found herself captivated by him again. She nodded blankly.

“My sister… is like me,” he began tentatively. “She frequents your porch more often than I do, I think. She… comes as a tabby with a white star on her forehead and a pink nose.”

She riffled through her memory and came up with a match.

“I’ve seen her,” she said faintly. “She’s as wary as you.”

He nodded, conceding the point.

“I’m looking for her. Have you seen her lately?”

She shook her head.

“Not in the last few days.”

He grimaced.

“I see.” He looked back up at her. “It was she who gave me these scratches.”

Her eyebrows raised. He continued,

“She… retains less of her humanity as a cat than I do, and more of her feline nature as a woman. She barely comes home these days. She spends most of her time as a cat. I’ve been trying to figure out what to do with her, and I think I may have found a solution, but I can’t seem to find her. I finally ran into her earlier, but she wouldn’t have it, and she gave me these.” He gestured ruefully to the numerous band aids covering his limbs and bare chest. She nodded, grateful for permission to stare, if only for a moment. “If you see her, will you keep her? I’ll keep looking, but I think she’ll turn up here eventually.”

She nodded again, then found her voice.

“Of course. Certainly. She often goes this long between visits. When I see her, I’ll take care of her.”

He smiled, and bowed again. She felt her own waist bend in return. Then he left, as suddenly as he’d come. It was a long time before she went back to the dishes.


She saw the tabby the next day, late in the day, and she quietly laid out a plate of liver where the others wouldn’t get it. The liver was laced with Benadryl, which she’d used before on recalcitrant cats who hated the vet. Soon the tabby was asleep, and she carried her inside and laid her down in a nest of towels. She would have put her in a cat carrier, but she was afraid this one would transform too, and her fears were well founded because a few minutes later she went to check on her and found a woman in her place. She placed a blanket over her, wishing she’d gotten some kind of contact information from the man before he’d gone. It took the woman longer to wake up than the man, but when she did she immediately leaped up and looked wildly around the room, focusing at last on her.

Again, she stood very still, waiting for the cat-woman to calm down. Soon, however, the woman was a tabby again, and growling deep in her throat. She set down another plate of cat food and retreated, keeping a corner of her eye on the tabby. The cat cautiously approached the food, sniffed it thoroughly, and then nibbled on it. Soon the plate was empty, and the tabby was yowling for more. She fed her again, and when the cat was full it curled up in the nest of towels and went to sleep.

An hour or so later there was a knock at the front door, and when she opened it she found the cat-man standing on her porch, with considerably more clothes than he’d been wearing previously. He was wearing jeans, a sweater and a scarf, and holding a bouquet of flowers. She blinked stupidly at him.

“I came to bring you these,” he said, shifting awkwardly and waving the bouquet randomly. “As thanks. For your help.”

She nodded, faintly.

“Thank you,” she said. There was a pause, and then she remembered herself. “Oh, and your sister’s here.”

He was instantly more alert. She turned aside out of his way, allowing him in. He handed her the flowers as he strode past her, into her living room. She followed him slowly. When she reached the room he was already kneeling down beside the sleeping cat. She treaded silently to the kitchen and set down the flowers, watching them. He moved slowly, getting his arms in place, and then swiftly but gently put his hands around the cat. She woke instantly and began hissing and scratching, but he only grimaced and stood, the cat firmly in his grip. He looked up at her, and she pointed to the cat carrier she kept by the door. He nodded his thanks, and slipped the cat inside it, withdrawing his hands and shutting the door in one swift motion. She could see a paw batting out through the bars. He stood.

“Thank you so much. I know flowers aren’t enough…”

She waved a dismissive hand, though she wished she had the courage to ask for his phone number. “Don’t mention it,” she said. He nodded again, picked up the carrier, and was gone again.


A few days later she saw a woman on the other side of the street, wearing a dress and battered old sneakers, who caught her eye and nodded to her. She squinted at the woman, lifting a hand to ward off the glare, and barely had time to recognize her before she slipped away with cat-like grace behind some garbage cans and she lost sight of her.

She saw the slight black cat the day after that, slinking around at the back of the group of feeding cats. She smiled at him, and he came up to her and shyly put his head under her fingers, and when she scratched his ears he purred.