by Melissa Martini
Previously published in Faded Fur & Stripped Skin published by Bottlecap Press.
The First Cat Lady has seven cats and a wardrobe full of quirky English teacher dresses, even though she is not an English teacher. The Second Cat Lady is half-cat, and can transform on command (to clarify, she is not one of the first Cat Lady’s seven cats).
There is no Third Cat Lady, never was, but there is a Fourth. She lives nearby, and collects cat figurines. She finds them in thrift stores and cannot stop buying them, despite the fact her home is jam-packed, display cases and shelves filled to the brim.
The First Cat Lady and the Fourth Cat Lady interact occasionally on Saturdays, when they are both scavenging the shelves of the local thrift store for goodies — the First Cat Lady in desperate need of new dresses due to her cats clawing and soiling her wardrobe’s staple pieces. They nearly bump into each other when getting in line, the First politely saying, “So sorry, please, go ahead!” and the Fourth taking her up on the offer without a second thought.
But our story isn’t about the First Cat Lady or the Fourth Cat Lady, it’s about the Second Cat Lady, who has gone ahead and gotten herself mistaken for a stray yet again. Her name is Lydia, but the young man who has taken her in has been calling her Mittens. He’s quite handsome and wears sweater vests with scarves, and she doesn’t have the heart to transform back into a human and burst his bubble: he’s pretty excited to be taking care of something, even if it’s just a cat. He pours her a bowl of milk and gently pets her head as she drinks, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. She purrs.
She hops into his bed at night, and he opens his arms and says, “Come to Daddy!” This makes her cringe, recoil. If she were in her human form, this would excite her, but the man is talking to a cat. Because of this, she concludes, he is weird — a weird Cat Guy, like the First Cat Lady. They would make a lovely couple, Lydia thinks, his sweater vests and her English teacher dresses standing next to each other in holiday photos. When he falls asleep, she slips out an open window and heads home.
When Lydia first became a Cat Lady, she installed a doggy door in the back so she could seamlessly leave and enter her own home whether she was a cat or a human. She pushes the soft plastic sheet forward, the weight of it slightly heavy on her back as she squeezes through. Her home is dark, so she extends her body into its human form, her fur fading into her skin, and flicks on a light. Now naked, she shivers — she left a window open and the wind is blowing in at its leisure.
She almost misses him, her ex-pet-parent of less than one night. It had been the most human touch she’d felt in months, and she considers visiting him in the morning as a human. She knows where he lives, after all, but needs an excuse to knock on his door. She pours herself a mug of tea before heading to bed, pulling a heavy blanket over her bare body. As she nurses the warm drink on her nightstand, she contemplates reasons — she’s too old to sell Girl Scout Cookies, too young to sell Avon.
He isn’t even right for her, and yet he cared. And this is enough to keep Lydia up all night, craving her body to be back in his presence.
In the morning, Lydia does her hair and makeup, and puts on her best jeans and blouse. She prefers life as a cat for this reason alone — the process of preparing herself for a day as a human is tiring, unnecessary, and demeaning. She spends the week as a human heading into an office every day, so most of her weekends are spent in cat form for those two days of freedom from societal expectations. Yet, this Sunday, she is dolled up and walking to a man’s house instead of lounging in a park getting free pets from strangers.
Lydia passes the First Cat Lady’s house and the Fourth Cat Lady’s house before reaching her destination. When she knocks on his door, she still isn’t sure what she’s going to say, but when he opens the door it doesn’t matter. He stands before her, glasses slightly crooked and sweater vest not buttoned up all the way. She has caught him off guard, and enjoys seeing him a little less polished than the previous day.
“Hello,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “May I… help you?”
“I saw you rescue a stray cat yesterday. My name is Lydia.” Lydia holds out her hand and he takes it slowly, hesitantly, shaking it only slightly.
“Oliver. Was it… your cat? Because I’m sorry to say, but it got out. I don’t know where it is now.” He lets go of her hand and leans against the door frame.
“It’s not mine,” Lydia shakes her head. “It was probably that Cat Lady’s. She’s got like, seven cats. They get out all the time. I just thought it was really cool of you, and wanted to come say hi.”
“Cool of me, huh?” He chuckles, looking her up and down. He’s taken aback, but intrigued. “Well, thanks.”
They stand silently for one second, two seconds, three. Lydia shifts her weight from foot to foot, thinking this might have been a terrible idea. She so badly wants him to invite her in, pour her a cup of milk, and run his fingers through her hair. Maybe go up to his bedroom and for him to say, “Come to Daddy,” but in a slightly deeper tone and while slowly unbuttoning the rest of his sweater vest. He stares at her, his eyes picking her apart inch by inch. She wonders if the shirt she chose to wear is bland enough for him — she went with a loose button-up, maintaining the whole button theme.
“So,” he starts, “what can I do for you, uh, Lydia, was it?” He finally fixes his glasses.
“Maybe we can rescue a stray together some time,” Lydia tries to say it flirtatiously, but she fears it comes off as creepy, weird. Weird like she thought he was last night. Weird like she is drawn to, for some reason. Maybe he would be drawn to it as well.
His lips flirt with a smirk, unable to resist giving it a shot — she’s hot, why not? “That would be nice.”
Their fourth date is to an animal shelter so that Oliver can bring home a cat — for real this time — a cat that won’t slip out in the middle of the night as if escaping a one night stand. They walk through the shelter examining cats and kittens, and Oliver settles on a small gray one – quite the opposite of Lydia’s beige fur she sports in cat form. It’s just about the same color as her hair as a human, a warm blonde. Oliver is also blonde, so maybe it’s for the best if the kitten brings some diversity into the mix.
While Oliver fills out the adoption forms, Lydia notices the First Cat Lady entering the shelter, likely there to adopt her eighth feline friend. Lydia greets her — the Cat Ladies know each other as if members of a secret club, on friendly terms but not a name-to-name basis. But with Oliver in the same room as the both of them, Lydia suddenly feels threatened — the First Cat Lady is his perfect girl, and she can’t risk him finding this out.
“Are you bringing someone home today?” the First Cat Lady asks Oliver.
“Yes! I am. That little gray one over there.” He points to the cat, who is being prepared to go home in a cat carrier — free with adoption!
“Oh, I’ve been eyeing her for weeks now. I’ve got so many at home already, though – I don’t need any more.” She lets out a laugh.
“Then… why are you here?” Oliver asks, raising a suspicious eyebrow at her.
She laughs again, this time louder. “Good question. I just like to look, you know? See if any speak to me. Just in case. I’m Carolyn, by the way.”
“Oliver. Actually, I think one of your cats spent the night at my place recently. A beige one?” He leaps to conclusions that this is the First Cat Lady Lydia told him about — correct conclusions, yet Lydia cannot help but admire his confidence in this leap of faith.
“Hm,” Carolyn thinks for a moment. “Mine don’t leave the house. And I don’t have a beige one.”
“Strange. Lydia, didn’t you say you recognized that cat I took in? Was it Carolyn’s?” Oliver waves to get Lydia’s attention, who has been avoiding the interaction like the plague.
“Carolyn’s?” Lydia plays dumb. “No, I don’t think so. I must have meant someone else.”
“Well,” Carolyn shrugs, changing the subject, “If you need any advice, tips, or supplies, you can give me a call. Always happy to help when it comes to kitties.”
Carolyn jots her phone number down on the corner of an adoption form, rips it off, and hands it to Oliver. He nods in acceptance before Carolyn heads into the back to check out the cats and kittens available. Oliver ponders the fact cats seem to be drawing women to him like cats to catnip, but he doesn’t quite mind it — the confidence he has been gaining has only allowed him to pursue Lydia with more ease, making it the most comfortable and successful relationship for him yet.
“She seems nice,” Oliver states the classic, go-to line.
“I thought she seemed weird.” Lydia resists rolling her eyes. “Kitties is such an offensive term. Like, just say cats. Kitties infantilizes them and downplays the serious and fierce nature of the feline species.”
“I didn’t realize there was a politically incorrect way to refer to cats,” Oliver laughs as if Lydia is joking, but she isn’t. “Are you, uh, well-versed in cat politics?”
“I’d consider myself more well-versed than Carolyn, that’s for sure.” Lydia waves him away. “Come on. Grab your new friend and let’s head home.”
Oliver releases the small cat into his home, and it hesitates before exiting the cage. Slowly, it takes its first steps out, pawing at the rug before taking the plunge. It is not a kitten age-wise, but its size is that of a kitten — Beanie Baby-esque sans a heart shaped tag.
“What will you name her?” Lydia asks, and for a moment, the thought crosses her mind that he might reply with Carolyn.
“I named that stray I found ‘Mittens,’ but it feels wrong to name one cat after another.” Oliver sits on his couch and holds out a hand. The cat makes its way to him and he pets its head. “I always wonder what animals want their names to be, you know?”
“We can ask her.” Lydia sits on the rug, crosses her legs, and leans towards the cat, who is drawn to her. It sniffs her, confused, and offers a lick to the nose. “What would you like to be called, little one?”
The cat purrs in response, and Lydia giggles. Oliver joins her on the floor, digging his elbows into the rug as he props himself up. The cat brushes up against him.
“Her name’s Willow.” Lydia states. “And she likes you.”
“Oh really?” Oliver pets Willow and leans towards Lydia.
“Yeah. And I like you, too.” Lydia leans in, as well, and Oliver closes the gap between them with a slow, soft kiss. Upon seeing this, Willow strolls to her litter box set up in the corner of the living room, and shits.
After an entire year of dating, Oliver has not once said “Come to Daddy” to Lydia in the bedroom, but he has said it to Willow multiple times during both feeding time and playtime. He’s become quite the Cat Daddy, taking Willow on walks and bringing her to work to lounge under his desk. It has crossed Lydia’s mind to turn into a cat and pretend to be a stray again on more than one occasion to receive the treatment Willow does, but she tries to enjoy her relationship with Oliver to the best of her abilities as a human.
Dating him has seriously impacted the amount of time she spends as a cat on the weekends, but despite the resentment building up inside of her, she still wants to buy him a top tier anniversary gift — particularly, something cat-related.
Oliver is practical, minimalist: she can’t get him a mug with a cat on it, because that will clutter his kitchen, and she can’t get him a pair of funky cat-patterned socks because he strictly only wears black dress socks. It dawns on her that Carolyn would probably know exactly what to get him — that her quirkiness would balance out his boring — that Lydia’s fire was only being watered down by the drizzle of Oliver’s overcast.
She is picking up kitty litter at the convenience store when she sees it: a cat Chia Pet sitting solo on an otherwise empty shelf. Oliver mentioned quite a few times that he wanted a desk plant, something green for his office. Lydia rushes over to it and reaches to pick it up, her hand colliding with the hand of the Fourth Cat Lady.
Lydia and the Fourth Cat Lady stare at each other for one second, two seconds, three. Neither remove their hand from the box, despite the fact their fingers are intimately interlocked at this point.
“This is for my boyfriend,” Lydia states, as if this means anything to the Fourth Cat Lady.
“This is for my collection,” the Fourth Cat Lady retorts.
“I’m sure they will get more in stock,” Lydia tries to reason, “but my anniversary is this weekend and I really need to buy this now.”
“This is the last one. And I need it for my collection.” The Fourth Cat Lady is older than both Lydia and Carolyn, with short, bluntly cut hair splayed out over her forehead. She wears a tee shirt with an image of a sunflower printed on the front, paired with denim capris and chunky white sneakers. Lydia thinks if she was twenty-something, this might be a fashion statement, but instead, it is a cry for What Not to Wear to resume filming.
“Well I need it for my boyfriend,” Lydia tightens her grip on the Chia Pet and yanks as hard as she can, causing the Fourth Cat Lady to stumble forward into her cart.
Locking eyes with Lydia, the Fourth Cat Lady dramatically falls to the floor and begins screeching, gripping her ankle.
“Cunt,” Lydia mutters, transforming into a cat and scurrying out of the store before any store employees could arrive at the scene and leaving the Chia Pet behind.
On their anniversary, Oliver cooks a quiet dinner and serves it at his living room table, Willow curling up in the corner of the room and purring as they pour wine and light a candle. The rack of lamb sitting on the table has been roasted, the scent of herbs combating the aroma of the nearby vanilla-scented candle. Lydia so badly wishes he would have made something more cat-friendly, like a roasted chicken or a seared tuna steak, wondering if it would be impolite to request a cup of milk with dessert instead when Oliver sets up the mugs of coffee. They eat together slowly, making quiet conversation. Lydia aches for Oliver to beckon her to the bedroom or spoon feed her a scoop of the ice cream he served for dessert.
Instead, he stops after one glass of wine and whips out a small box, which Lydia slowly opens to reveal a diamond necklace. It is beautiful. She loves it, really. She doesn’t know what else she might have expected — it was the picture perfect anniversary gift, the thing that all girls want. Lydia wonders, if dogs are man’s best friend and diamonds are a girl’s best friend, what is a cat’s best friend? Are cats too independent for friendships, for relationships?
Lydia places the box on the table gently, finishes the last sip of wine in her glass, and pushes melted ice cream around the bowl still sitting in front of her. The remaining brownie chunks began to dissolve, crumbs amongst the cream.
“Do you… not like it?” Oliver asks, his tone worried and stained with sadness.
“I do,” Lydia responds, sighing. “I do.”
“What’s wrong, Lyd?” He reaches out to touch her hand but she flinches away, cat-like reflexes revealing themselves. “It’s our anniversary, Lydia.”
“I know. And I didn’t get you anything.” She drops the spoon into the bowl, it clattering loudly, metal against ceramic. “I fought a lady at the store for a Chia Pet and lost, ran away with my tail between my legs.”
“What?” Oliver resists the urge to laugh, both confused and curious by Lydia’s statement. “Like a fist fight?”
“Just about,” Lydia rolls her eyes. “I’m sorry. It was perfect. Nothing else seemed to measure up so I settled on getting you nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing.”
“It’s okay,” Oliver reaches out for her hand again and this time grabs it before she can pull it away. He is learning her quirks, figuring out ways to work with them — predicting where she will move her hands next and aiming there first. “All I need is you.”
This makes Lydia’s heart skip a beat or two, and she lets out a purr Oliver thinks comes from Willow in the corner — but it also makes Lydia cry, tear after tear dropping from her eyes like a leaky faucet.
“You should be with someone like Carolyn,” she finally admits, trying to pack away the warmth travelling from his fingers to her skin, stuff it in a tiny box, tie it up, and swallow it. She swallows hard, holding back another wave of tears.
“Who the hell is Carolyn?” Oliver begins to laugh now. “Is that the lady you got into a fight with?”
“No!” Lydia laughs, too, wiping tears from her eyes. “The Cat Lady.”
Oliver thinks for a moment. “The lady from the shelter? Why would I want to be with her when I have you?” He gestures towards all that is Lydia, the woman sitting across from him who he has been infatuated with since she showed up at his door.
“Because she would get you an anniversary gift,” Lydia starts, exasperated and frustrated with herself, “and be able to enjoy the dinner you cook without daydreaming about calling you Daddy in the bedroom.”
This makes Oliver’s eyes grow wide. He can hear in her voice that she is annoyed, not with him, but with herself. He sits back in his seat and clasps his hands together in both surprise and disbelief. “Let me repeat myself, then. Why would I want to be with her when I have you?”
“Oliver, come on. I’m simultaneously too much and not enough for you.” She lets her face fall into her hands, wiping the remaining tears from her eyes. She licks the back of her hand instinctively, immediately wiping it on her jeans instead. Oliver notices and laughs.
“You are the perfect amount. What guy doesn’t want his girlfriend daydreaming about calling him Daddy in the bedroom while eating his shitty rack of lamb?” Oliver stands up and walks around the table to stand beside Lydia. He gently lifts her chin with his finger, pressing his lips against hers.
“It wasn’t shitty,” she mutters between kisses, “I just prefer fish.”
“Next year, I’ll cook you fish,” he whispers.
“Next year, I’ll get you a gift.” Lydia laughs quietly, purring into his ear as he hugs her, lifts her up. He walks her to the bedroom, Willow hopping onto the table to lap up the remaining ice cream. When the bowl is empty, she heads to the bedroom to sleep at Oliver and Lydia’s feet, curling up into a ball.
Oliver snores, Lydia purrs.
Melissa Martini (she/her) is the Founder & EIC of Moss Puppy Magazine. A Capricorn from New Jersey, Melissa received her Master’s in English with a focus in Creative Writing from Seton Hall University. Her debut chapbook, Faded Fur & Stripped Skin, was published by Bottlecap Press.
