Excerpt
Cat's People
NúriaNúria didn’t need an alarm clock. Every morning at six on the dot, three sets of paw daggers would stab her legs, her stomach, her chest, her face. Sandpapery tongues groomed her hair until finally, she shifted and groaned. At which point the owners of the daggers would meow in chorus until she staggered out of bed, bleary-eyed.
“Okay, I’m up!” she said, finding her way into her tiny kitchen. The three ingrates followed her, circling her legs, meowing as if it were the end of the world. She tripped over a ginger-colored cat before reaching her destination—the cupboard that held stacks and stacks of salmon-flavored Gour-Meow, the ingrates’ favorite canned food.
Meeeooowww!
The howls became even more desperate as she popped a can open, scooping the foul-smelling pâté into the clean bowls she’d left on the counter the night before. It was only when she’d carefully placed the bowls on the floor, spaced one foot apart, that silence finally reigned. Well, not total silence, since she lived in a second-floor walk-up on one of the busiest streets in Brooklyn. Still, it was quiet enough for her to relax and get on with her day.
First, coffee. Núria scrounged around, searching for some beans. But there were none. “Crap,” she mumbled.
Somehow, she always remembered to restock the ingrates’ food, but when it came to her own needs her brain turned to mush. No coffee. No toilet paper. No food. She opened the fridge and glared at the one Granny Smith apple. The only other items were a stick of vegan butter, a carton of expired oat milk, a jar full of ketchup packets, and a lone bottle of something that had rolled to the back of one of the shelves. She reached for it and pulled it out, grinning when she realized it was the rest of the cold brew from the other day that she’d forgotten about.
Maybe the day wouldn’t be so bad after all.
She plopped down on one of two chairs, part of a Formica dining set she’d picked up at the Salvation Army, the table only as big as two pizza boxes. By then, the ingrates had finished their breakfasts and scurried off to call dibs on their favorite spots in her cluttered studio apartment. Miel, the ginger tabby, hopped onto the windowsill next to her half-dead cactus. Gazpacho, the chubby calico, curled up on her pillow. Last but not least, Churro, the chocolate-colored cat, crawled under the bed where nobody would bother him.
While drinking her cold brew, Núria scrolled through her emails, reading but not really, as if her mind was somewhere else. It had been a while since she’d really cared about anything. Even the things she’d loved, like volunteering with the Meow-Yorkers, a rescue and trap-neuter-return organization, and her job as a barista at a nearby café had lost their luster. She didn’t know why, but for the last year, she felt like she’d been walking through life half-asleep. A zombie. A robot. A shell of the human she’d once been.
Beep! A text from her mother popped onto the screen.
Oye! Look! Even the Pope says that pets aren’t children.
Attached to the text was a link to an article titled, “Pope Scolds Couples Who Choose Pets over Kids.” Núria sighed. She didn’t even bother reading it. What was the point? Ignore and delete. That had been her coping mechanism for the last few years, since her mom had started harassing her about grandchildren on her thirty-fifth birthday. Núria hadn’t had the courage to tell her that she had no plans on birthing a bunch of mini-Núrias. Not because she thought she’d ever change her mind, but because she wasn’t mentally prepared to deal with the fallout. Spanish women of a certain age dreamed of having grandchildren, and the thought of taking that dream away from her mother made her break out in hives.
Núria went over to the windowsill, where Miel was busy chirping at some birds. She scratched his furry chin, the gesture soothing to them both. An instant Xanax of sorts. She needed as much calm as she could get. Because it was Núria’s day off. Instead of languishing in bed bingeing on Netflix, she had to venture outside to do her regular feeding. Since she would have more time on her hands to do her rounds properly, she would also have more time to work herself into a nervous ball of energy. Part of her volunteering duties involved making sure that none of the strays had any medical issues requiring emergency care. For her, that was the most stressful part of her volunteering duties. Finding a sick and injured stray cat was something she dreaded.
It was exhausting work, physically and mentally. There had been times she’d come close to quitting. Wouldn’t it be easier not to care? But those moments of self-doubt were fleeting. Truth be told, there was just one thing that Núria took pride in—her steadfast commitment. It was probably her only redeeming quality. She sucked at relationships. She sucked at cooking and cleaning. And she especially sucked at taking care of herself. Self-care? What the hell was that?
Miel suddenly swiped at Núria’s hand, which meant he’d had enough attention. She plucked some relatively clean clothes from a nearby armchair and got dressed. There wasn’t any point in wearing truly clean clothes when she was going to go out and sweat. Not to mention the stink of canned food, cat piss, and the occasional coppery odor of a bloody cat scratch that always clung to her after her rounds. The life of a community stray cat caretaker was all so very glamorous.
When she was somewhat presentable, she grabbed her backpack and stuffed several cans of cat food, a Ziploc full of kibble, and some disposable plastic containers that she used as water bowls inside. Then she filled her insulated bottle with tap water and headed for the door.
Twinkle-twinkle . . . Twinkle . . . Twinkle-twinkle . . . It was the sound of her supposedly Zen ringtone. Núria pulled her phone out of her back pocket and glanced at the screen. Her shoulders instantly slumped. It was her mother. Again. As much as she wanted to ignore the call, she knew that she had to give her mother a modicum of attention. It was kind of like the ten minutes a day that she had to play aluminum-foil-ball or catch-the-string with the ingrates. If she didn’t, they’d spend all night doing the zoomies from one side of the room to the other.
Núria answered, “Hola, Mamá.”
There was some fumbling on the other end. “Núria! Por fin!” There was a pause. “Mira, I have some exciting news for you.”
“Exciting news?” Núria rolled her eyes.
“Yes, are you sitting?”
Núria went over to the bed and sat. “Yes.”
Another pause. “Enrique . . . He’s single again!”
Enrique was the handsome son of her mother’s best friend down in Florida. He lived in New Jersey, but commuted to the city for his job at a law firm. He gelled his hair and wore designer suits and drank single malt whiskey at fancy bars with fancy blondes.
“And you’re telling me this because?”
“Because I think you should go out on a date with him, mija. . . . It really is time for you to quit acting like a teenager and settle down,” she said.
“Ma!”
“What? I’m your mother! It’s my job to point these things out to you.”
Núria could feel the sweat trickling down her temples. Her palms were clammy and she could sense the beginnings of an anxiety attack. She had to think quickly.
“I’m already seeing someone!” she blurted out.
“Qué?” Her mother sounded like she’d just run face first into Julio Iglesias, her idol. “Who? Who are you seeing? Por díos! Dígame!”
For a second, Núria panicked. Shit. What the hell was she thinking? If she didn’t say something soon, her mother would hop on the first plane to New York City and demand answers.
“Uh. Um. Well . . .” Núria fumbled with her words. But then, she felt something on her leg and looked down. Churro was peeking at her from underneath the bed, swatting at her untied shoelace. “Ch-Chu . . . his name is Charles.”
