Ailurophile

    Ailurophile

     "Ailurophile?" I say, raising an eyebrow.

     "Really? You work in a cat shelter and you don't know what an ailurophile is?” She’s got a lot of confidence for a lady whose foot fat spills over the sides of her heels, “An ailurophile is a lover of cats,” she says, swiping her hair behind her ears.  

     That’s probably why I don't know what one is. I’m not a lover of cats so I have no reason to have ever heard of such a useless word. In fact I hate cats. They're always pissed off, or coughing something up. Not to mention they’re germy — toxic even. I heard that the midwives at the hospital have to ask all the new mums if they have cats at home so that they can give them proper instructions on how to make sure their new babies don’t die from cat germs!  And everyone knows they're the most disloyal creatures to exist, and who wants a pet that's not loyal? That's the whole point of a pet isn't it? Buy something to love you?  I’m not here volunteering because I am a lover of cats, I’m here for the money and the money only. The same reason I’ve been in every one of my last fifteen jobs. Of course the weirdos  who come in here like to tell me, "they're just misunderstood!" 

     I press the button below the desk and the door buzzes open for the cat rescuer, lover whatever she calls herself to walk through to the holding area. Immediately the cats start their vocal warmups, as if they're purposely trying to torture the lady. 

     "Yes hello, hello, what beautiful voices," she calls around to the cages. 

They get louder, such sarcastic things, cats. They know full well that they sound like the dead being resurrected, it’s as if they’re testing her. She’s dressed in god awful lavender; there's nothing to like about lavender! Why is it that all dog owners look like their dogs but all cat owners just  look like other cat owners. Purple people, with a stupid grin who usually possess some type of unnecessary degree like creative writing or art history. 

      She’s grinning at each one as she walks past. They all just look like they want to kill her. They have a permanently angry face. I’m sure cats are reincarnated serial killers.

     I watched a Netflix series once about serial killers. Turns out you'd never be able to pick one out of a crowd. That’s how unsuspecting they are. My English teacher used to tell me I have a transparent face so I should be careful what emotions I let show. What she meant to say was that I have a resting bitch face so I just look permanently sour — which is what girls have said to me my whole life.  Boys on the other hand say I'm exotic. "Don't look in her eyes," they say, "you'll fall in love." It's my upturned almond eyes that don't make sense on a white girl's face.  

     Now the purple lady is flapping her arms up and down slowly as if trying to silence them. 

I can hear her saying, "yes you all want to get out of these tiny cages don't you, I want to take you all with me yes I do," in a stupid cat voice.

     I don't really understand the point of a cat shelter if I'm honest. If they were all let out to run free they would find food and shelter, and anyway, it's not like they actually go home when they've got a home to go to anyway!  All the cats I see  around town wander from house to house eating whatever's been left out for them on whoever's door steps they approach. 

     It kind of reminds me of the baneful progressive dinners I used to attend when I was with Rocco. Walking around the street from house to house eating everyone's terrible cooking and making loathsome small talk, Anna-May Steven’s house was the worst! Everything was so prim and proper and I was expected to engage in conversation about how to grow indoor herbs or some other stale topic. When she first met me she had the nerve to say to Rocco, “she's a bit melancholy isn't she?' I'm not melancholy, they were just  boring! And I'm not the type to play pretend just to keep up appearances. I'd rather die. Rocco never stood up for me, he just wanted to keep the peace with the neighbours.  

     I don't know how I ever ended up in a relationship with Rocco. The whole thing was tedious. Rocco was tedious. Which in the end is why I ran away. I couldn't, of course, simply tell him to his face that I was leaving, I wouldn't have been able to get away. He would have started crying, and declaring  that I do in fact love him and I'm making a mistake because I'm not thinking clearly because I'm probably hungry and I should sleep in it and see how I feel in the morning.  I tried that once, it went around in circles and ended in him hugging me so tightly I had to push him away and accidentally scratched him. He started crying, such a sensitive thing. Apparently he's still looking for me…as if he thinks I'll come back one day! My best friend Jamie thinks I'm crazy to have left. “You had everything!' she said, 'now all you have is a shoe box!' I don't care.  I'd rather have my freedom in a tiny home that be obsessed over in a mansion.   

     "Have these cats been fed?” The purple lady calls through the window. “They're all obscenely thin!"

     "Yes, they've been fed," I answer, rolling my eyes. It's always the first question anyone asks when they come in here. These cat owners and their pampering! They only need one meal a day. I only eat a can of tuna a day and I'm fine! My neighbour Freddy works at Pizza Shed and often leaves a pizza on my doorstep after work. He calls me Slinky Malinki, and tells me I’ll be happier if I wear something other than black and eat some grease. I never turn down the pizza, I inhale it. Cats will eat what's in front of them too, but if it's not there they don't need it. 

     She knocks on the window again and I buzz the door open for her to join me back in the reception area.

     "I'd like to know more about Oliver and Ginger,” she says. I still can’t work out why cats are always named after a colour or a grandparent. 

     “Sure,”  I say, typing into the computer. I swing the screen around for her to see.

     "So they've been here for two weeks?" she asks.

     “That's what it says," I say, looking at the screen 

     "Well you work here don't you? Did you not see them arrive."

     "Oh yep, yep, two weeks," I say sitting down. God I hate this job

     "I don't appreciate your tone…Amber," she says, reading my name tag.

     "Listen, do you want the cat or not?" 

     "I'd like to come back when your manager is on duty," she huffs.

     "Sure." I reply

     "And when will that be?" She says, pursing her lips together, as if she could try and intimidate me. 

     "No idea. Why don't you call him?" I say, handing a business card over. Roy is literally never here. It surprises me the effort he went to with my interview, even hiring me because I was a "rare breed of a worker," given the fact that he’s never here and doesn't seem to care what goes on here.

     "You don't care at all do you? This is all a joke to you isn't it?" She holds her breath waiting for some kind of answer from me but I just pick up a glass of water and start sipping.

     "Unbelievable," she cries, “there’s a special place in hell for the bad guys you know!” She clip-clops out the door.

     I look over to the cats. They're sitting in their cages licking their paws, chasing flies with their eyes. They don't give a shit what just happened. They don’t give a shit about anything! Suddenly I don’t hate them as much,  and in fact I feel somewhat accepted. I walk over to the window and look at my reflection. I wipe away a lipstick smudge from the corner of my mouth with my finger, then I pick up the keys. My eyes trace all the cars out on the highway to make sure Roy's yellow ford isn't making a rare visit as I unlock all the cages. 

     When I get home it’s dark. Freddy’s left a pizza on my doorstep. I don't even bother going inside, I just plonk myself down on the step and start devouring it. I don't feel like the bad guy for doing it. Maybe I’m not the good guy either. I'm probably just misunderstood.