Alley Cat (Discontinued)

Biscuits and Loaves

Sights and smells overwhelmed the boy as he was carried inside. Various bread products surrounded him on all sides---sliced loaves on shelves, stacked nearly to the ceiling; fresh loaves cooling down on counters, their sweet, doughy scent causing the boy to drool; and of course, there were cakes, pies, muffins, and other such products on display in the store window and at the cashier's counter. The boy had lucked out---the angry man and his wife owned a bakery. He wouldn't have to worry about hunger for as long as he stayed with them.

The woman carried the boy up a set of stairs. The boy figured that was where the living area of the building was located, and he was proven right as he came face-to-face with a cozy, welcoming interior. The living room was just barely large enough to contain a cushioned chair, a love seat, and a coffee table. The woman's footsteps were muffled as she walked onto the burgundy rug in the middle of the room. The boy was surprised to find he could still hear her footsteps. He thought it to be because of his increased hearing capabilities bestowed upon him by his cat form. He was taken from his thoughts as the woman shifted him under one arm and used the other to move a stack of newspapers from the coffee table to the love seat.

"What are you doing?! We are not putting that stray on our table!" the man yelled, grabbing the woman's arm. She pulled her arm out of his grasp and glared at him.

"We need to dress his wounds. I'd rather get blood and fur on the table than on the couch," the woman said sternly. She gently lowered the boy onto the coffee table, then reached towards the boy's head. He hissed, and she backed away.

"See? He's gonna bite you, and you'll get rabies!" the man argued, gesturing towards the boy angrily.

The woman shook her head.

"He's just scared, that's all. I'm going to grab some bandages and rubbing alcohol. Be nice to the poor thing, okay?"

The woman walked into a nearby room, leaving the man alone with the boy. The boy made himself comfortable and sprawled out on his less-injured side on the coffee table. He and the man glared at each other.

"I hope you know I don't like you, cat," the man spat.

The boy hissed in response.

"I'm only doing this for Theresa," the man continued. "If you hurt her, you'll regret it. Y'hear?"

The boy nodded. The man squinted suspiciously.

"You're a strange cat," he said. "It's almost like you understand what I'm saying. Weirdo."

Ah. That's right. Cats don't nod.

The boy licked at his torn claw, hoping to distract both himself and the man from his odd behavior.

The woman returned, bandages, rubbing alcohol, and cotton balls in hand. She knelt beside the boy, and he stopped licking his paw. She opened the bottle of rubbing alcohol and poured some on a cotton ball. The smell caused the boy's nose to wrinkle up.

"This is going to hurt a little bit," the woman said softly, taking one of the boy's paws in one hand and slowly bringing the alcohol-soaked cotton ball towards it with her other.

The boy had never experienced that sort of pain before. The bites and scratches obtained from fights stung in a way, but not in the literal, burning sense of the alcohol on his torn claw. He yowled and pulled away, his remaining claws subconsciously extending.

The woman drew back before the boy's claws could scratch her. The man scowled and gave the boy a threatening look.

"You poor thing, I'm sorry," the woman cooed. "I need to do this so you can get better, though."

The boy steeled himself for her next attempt. This time, he knew what to expect and found that the alcohol hurt much less, though it still stung.

The woman continued dressing the boy's wounds, gently wrapping his paw in a bandage and cleaning and bandaging the bites and scratches covering his leg and torso. Sorrow and pity mixed together on the woman's face. The boy glanced away. This had always been his life; fights with other urchins often resulted in cuts and bruises, and many of the other children had much worse injuries than the boy had currently. No one had cared about him before, so why now? Was it just because he was an animal, so helpless and cute in the eyes of humans? Were animals worth that much more than people, that a stray cat is treated so much better than an orphan child? A low hiss escaped the boy's mouth and his claws subconsciously extended.

"I'm sorry, did that hurt?" the woman asked, drawing back.

The boy looked up, surprised. He noticed his extended claws and retracted them before meowing an apology to the woman. Regardless of how horrid people were to him while he was human, he was being helped by one now. He figured he should be grateful for humans' biases towards animals, at least for now.

After dressing the boy's wounds, the woman left the boy on the couch (much to her husband's dismay) and searched the kitchen for food she could give him. The boy gingerly walked in circles upon the couch cushion, feeling its fabric and stuffing rise and fall beneath his paws. Unlike in the alleys the boy roamed, where the only couches were broken ones with holes and broken springs that poked him when he sat down, this couch was soft, clean, and comfortable. The boy rubbed his head against one of the armrests. He imagined himself, human, lying along the length of the couch, resting his head upon the armrest like a pillow, and eating to his heart's content.

"Lay down already, dumb fleabag."

The boy glared at the man and hissed, then rubbed against the armrest more harshly than before, leaving fur everywhere. The man sighed angrily, but said nothing more. The boy then closed his eyes and let out a purr of contentment as he lay down against the armrest, tucking his paws beneath himself. He soon drifted off to sleep.