Eclectica
an excerpt

4. Biscuit

The cat appeared one morning, filthy and with an open sore across one flank. I felt sorry for the poor thing as it stood there meowing pitifully at me. When I leaned down to scratch an ear, it backed away. Someone had apparently abused this cat, and it was wary now of all people. I crouched, bringing myself closer to its level, and made meaningless, soothing noises. Eventually it came closer, and I could see though it was thin, it had been someone’s pampered pet at one time.

The remains of a burgundy collar hung around the poor thing's neck, and I could see where a tag had once dangled. I couldn't imagine what the cat had gone through that might have ripped that away, and shuddered to think about possibilities.

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This day, I hadn't stepped away. I sat, instead, next to the food bowl. "C'mon, Biscuit," I called. She came running, but halted just out of reach. "Closer, Biscuit," I coaxed.

She sat and surveyed the situation and I admired her profile. She'd filled out a bit on having good, nutritious food. With the added health came a desire for self-respect, I guess, because she'd begun grooming herself again. The tattered collar still held to her neck, but her tabby stripes were clearly visible. She was darker orange above than below, and she was quite a beautiful animal. Or would be, when her ribs were no longer visible. Her orange-green eyes were clear again, and I could see the calculation taking place as she decided if I was far enough away from the bowl for her to chance approach.

Briefly, for some reason, I thought of Tom. He’d had that look when I made cookies for a bake sale or the women’s club. It was a look full of stealth and cunning; the look that said if he could take a cookie so I wouldn’t notice its disappearance, he’d do so in a heartbeat. Come to think of it, Biscuit herself looked a bit like Tom. The scroungy facade I’d first seen her in was exactly the way Tom had looked that first day. He’d come in late to some school class. High school, it was, my first year. He was in two of the same classes, though he was a sophomore. The long hair, the backward baseball cap, the way he slouched in his chair, all his mannerisms swept me up into a fantasy realm where he would come to me after class and pledge his dying devotion.

Had I know it would really kill him, perhaps I’d have been less receptive. I shook off my reverie and looked at Biscuit again.