Paws and Effect Pt. 2

Week one was not domestication. Week one was a cold war fought mostly under Tai's bed and occasionally behind the toilet. Tai did keep her promise. The next morning she came back from the pet store with a real covered litter box which she immediately ruined by painting little white moons and black cats on it until Vix told her the fumes were bad for the cat and made her stop and open a window. She bought cheap stainless steel bowls and washed Vix's black pottery bowls three times, then a fourth time for good luck, and put them back on the shelf. Vix checked for scratches and said nothing, which was her version of forgiveness and also affection. She also made a vet appointment for the next day, which Raven hated before it even happened. The vet said Raven was a girl, about eight months old, white with yellow eyes, underweight, probably born outside to another feral, ear notch was from a trap and release program that missed her. No chip. Mildly dehydrated. Feral but young enough to socialize if they were patient and consistent. He gave them dewormer and a small bag of better food and told them to give her space and not force contact. Raven took the advice about space very seriously. She lived under Tai's bed, wedged between the wall and a plastic box of oil pastels that smelled like linseed oil, where no human hand could fit without moving the entire frame and all of Tai's art supplies. She did not meow. She made a low, rusty growl whenever anyone walked past, and a sharp hiss if Tai tried to look directly under the bed for too long or if Vix dropped her heavy philosophy books. Tai thought this was great progress. She spent hours on the floor. Not doing homework, just lying on her stomach, chin on her hands, talking to the darkness. She told Raven about her painting professor who said her use of color was aggressively joyful, about how Vix made coffee that was too strong and then drank it like punishment, about how she was scared Raven would never like inside and would want to leave. " Vix is scary too," Tai whispered to the glowing eyes under the bed. "But she made you plain chicken. No salt, no pepper, because the internet said feral cats can't have spices. She said it was leftovers but we didn't have chicken last night. I saw the grocery receipt. She cooked it just for you. She pretends she doesn't care but she left the bathroom light on low so you wouldn't be in the dark. That's love, Raven. Grumpy love." From the doorway, Vix, arms crossed, black hoodie, black nail polish chipped, hair up: "I can hear you. It was leftovers. And I left the light on because you left it on and you waste electricity." Tai grinned upside down at her. "See? She loves you." On day three, Tai got Raven to eat from her hand. One piece of kibble, taken so fast Tai barely felt it, then Raven vanished deeper under the bed, growling to herself. Tai almost cried and took a photo of her empty palm to remember it forever and sent it to Vix with seventeen exclamation marks. On day four, Raven used the litter box without trying to also use Tai's potted succulent, which Vix counted as a major diplomatic victory and cleaned without complaining too loudly. On day five, Vix came home to find Tai asleep on the floor, her arm stretched far under the bed, fingers barely touching white fur. Tai was snoring softly, glasses askew, messy red hair all over the floor, drool on her sleeve. Under the bed, Raven was not as far away as usual. She was curled against Tai's hand, not purring, but not growling either, breathing fast. Vix stood there for a long time. Then she went to the kitchen, heated plain chicken, cut it tiny, and put it in the new stainless steel bowl by the bed. She draped a blanket over Tai. On day six, Raven hissed at Vix a little less, and when Vix sat on the floor to tie her boots, Raven watched her instead of hiding her face, yellow eyes curious. "You are a bad feral cat," Vix told her quietly. "You are supposed to be wild. You are supposed to hate central heating and free food." Raven blinked slowly. One long, deliberate blink. Then she tucked her head back down and pretended Vix didn't exist. From the other side of the bed, Tai whispered, stage whisper loud enough to wake the neighbors: "That was a cat kiss! Slow blink means love! She loves you! That's cat language for I trust you!" Vix stood up too fast and hit her head on Tai's desk. "I don't need a cat to love me. I need her to stop shedding on my copy of The Symposium and my black sweaters." But that night, Vix left her bedroom door open a crack, so she could hear if Raven cried. Raven didn't cry. But Vix listened anyway, and fell asleep to the sound of Tai breathing on the floor next to a feral cat.

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