After Hurricane Rita, I adopt a tabby cat named Cleopatra. The shelter email got to me: “Hurricane Kitties need a Fur-ever Home.” The woman at the desk says she’s their shyest cat, which makes me feel virtuous. The vet notes say: Very shy, exam performed in carrier. Tense face/body. Ears back.

When I bring Cleo home, I put her in a safe room with a water bowl, a litter box, and a felt cat teepee. She runs to the window and tries to jump out, but the window is closed, so she just slams against it over and over. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

“This is what happens when you invite feral animals into your home,” my boyfriend Reggie says. He doesn’t really get it about animals. But that’s okay, because he doesn’t live with me, so he can’t tell me what to do.

“She’s not feral!” I say. “I think.”

After I let her out of her safe room, Cleopatra hides behind my washer-dryer. Which I’d be fine with, but she stays under there for days, and I’m not sure if she’s still eating and using the litter box. I chase her out with a broom and she glares at me. Will she ever forgive me?

I call Wren, the shelter’s cat socializer, to ask if I’m totally fucking this up. It’s been over a month, and Cleopatra is still terrified of me. Cats always loved me in the past – rubbing against my leg and purring and et cetera. That’s why I felt qualified to take on the shyest cat in the shelter. Now I’m questioning my cat mojo.

Wren says, “Are you feeding her at the same time every day? Routine is very important to establishing trust.”

I say, “Yeah.” How stupid does she think I am? “Is there anything else I can do?”

Wren says, “Try imagining a warm glow surrounding Cleopatra’s head. A yellow orb.” Whatever that means.

“Not helpful,” I say to Reggie. “A bunch of hippies over there.”

The last time I went to the shelter, Wren wasn’t wearing a bra. Not that I was paying much attention.

***

Cleopatra watches me from the end of the hallway, her tail elegantly tracing letters in the air. The tip is black, like it’s been dipped in ink.

***

I wake up to find a felt mouse toy in my bed. I text a picture to Reggie: OMFG!

He doesn’t respond.  

***

I’m on the couch letting my weed gummy take over, when Cleo puts her paws up on the cushion and peers at me.

Will she jump on my lap?

I hold still and plead with her telepathically: Do it do it do it do it.

The heating vent turns on with a heavy clunk and she gets spooked, scampering back down the hallway.

“Don’t –” I say. “Ugh!”

***

I come home from work to find Cleopatra curled up in the nest of blankets on my bed. She’s kissing her tail. She looks like a cinnamon bun, with her butterscotch and chocolate swirls. I tiptoe around her to put away my work clothes and cover my mouth so I don’t giggle.

I text a picture to Wren.

Wren texts back immediately: She likes your smell! She finds you safe and comforting. Good work!

I feel warm.

I look at Wren’s picture on the shelter site. She’s kissing an orange cat, her eyes closed. A daisy is tucked behind her ear.

***

Now I can get Cleo to sniff my finger, but only for a second, right before I give her Temptations treats. I get too cocky and try to pat her head, and she runs down the hallway.

“I’m not going to murder you,” I call. “I swear!”

***

When Reggie wants to have sex, I point to Cleo and coo over her until he gives up.

“Did you have a Mommy back home?” I ask Cleo. I imagine her being shuttled from shelter to shelter in the back of a van, in a kennel the size of a microwave, cats screeching and mewling around her. She must’ve been so scared.

“Maybe you were a mommy,” I say. She would’ve been old enough. Her nipples are pink pebbles under her fur. “Did you have little babies?”

I can stare at Cleopatra for hours. Dramatic stripes frame her jade green eyes, like eyeliner. Delicate eyelashes. Ears tipped with black, like a fox. She is a fox, an Egyptian priestess, a goddess, Cleopatra. In another life, she ordered servants around. I humble myself in her presence.

“I love you,” I say.

***

After Reggie and I break up, the apartment feels empty. Until I invite Wren over. “We can talk about cats,” I say.

When Wren comes in the door, Cleopatra watches us from the end of the hallway, her tail swishing. Wren crouches down, and her dark braids coil like snakes next to her Doc Martens. She pulls out some treats from her fanny pack and extends her hand.

Cleo trots over happily, sniffs her hand, and eats out of it. Crunch crunch crunch.

“What!” I say. “How did you do that!”

Wren pats Cleo’s head and sings to her softly, bending over her ear. Cleo’s drool drips down her whiskers.

Wren smiles up at me. “It’s a vibe,” she says. “You’re almost there.”

She still isn’t wearing a bra.

***

The next morning, I wake up to the feeling of a small creature tentatively walking across my legs and settling down in the crevice between my thighs. I open my eyes and see Cleopatra.

The sun shines on her from behind, and I can see the speckles and veins in her papery-thin ear.

I can see it now. She’s an angel. Her halo burns.

---

Judy Slitt lives in Virginia. Her stories have appeared or are forthcoming in Bright Flash Literary Review, surely magazine, Cosmic Daffodil Journal, Moss Puppy Magazine, M E N A C E, Crow & Cross Keys, and BULL. Her website is judyslitt.com.