chapter one
THE KITTY WHISPERER
Miles
Ican’t believe this is real.” I stare in mild disbelief at the top trending advertisement on my computer screen for several seconds before I move my cursor to hover over the website name. I’m afraid that what’s being advertised and what will pop up when I click the link are two very different things. I squeeze one eye shut and narrow the other, already expecting the worst.
A knock on my office door has me accidentally clicking the link instead of closing the window.
“The Kitty Whisperer?” Thankfully it’s not my boss. It’s my best friend and colleague, Josh Halpern.
I spin around, eyes wide. “Wanna say that a little louder? I don’t think Tom at the end of the hall heard you.”
He steps into my office and closes the door, one eyebrow raised as he surveys the space.
It’s a small office, but it has a window. The view is of the side of the building next door, but it opens, so that’s nice. And it’s better than my last job, where I worked in what we affectionately called the dungeon. Three other guys and I had cubicles in the basement. It was next to the laundry room, and noisy, and sometimes it smelled a bit funky, unless the laundry was on the dryer cycle. Then it was hot, but at least it smelled like dryer sheets.
“Uh, dude, unless you’re actively looking to get your ass fired during your first month, you probably shouldn’t be checking those sites at work.”
“It’s a cat-sitting service, not one of those sites. And to be clear, I would not willfully use the company server for that kind of browsing.”
Josh is the reason I have this job, and I don’t want to do anything to make him look bad. Or get myself fired before I even have a chance to prove I’m an asset to the team. We’re heading into the regular NHL season, and my role as a data analyst is to run player stats and help inform management when to use players to maximize performance.
“You just gotta be careful, man,” he warns. “You’re new, and any non-work-related browsing should be limited to nonwork hours. Management is pretty strict about that.”
I motion toward the cup of ramen noodles in front of me. “It’s my lunch break, so I figured it would be okay.”
“Oh. Well, you don’t have to eat lunch at your desk.”
“I know. I just needed to get this situation managed, so I was killing two birds with one stone.”
“What situation is that?” He steps up beside me and leans in closer to get a better look at my screen, his face scrunching in confusion. “Is this for real?”
“It certainly seems that way, yes.” The website has an overwhelming number of cat videos. And there’s a meowing soundtrack in the background that takes all of five seconds to become grating. I turn down the volume.
“Why are you on this site?” He raises a hand in front of his face as a space cat gif cycles every five seconds. It’s a lot. “Dude, can you do something, like click to another screen? I’m getting a headache from all the flashing.”
I click on one of the social media icons, navigating away from the website.
“Kitty Hart? A hundred thousand followers? That can’t be her real name,” Josh mutters. “It must be a gimmick.” He steals the mouse from me and clicks on the individual images, apparently no longer concerned about the inappropriate use of my work computer. It’s understandable, since this is an alluring albeit strange rabbit hole to fall into. The first picture is a closeup of “Kitty” holding a . . . surprise, surprise . . . kitty. A tiny one with a smooshed-in face.
Kitty—the human—smiles widely at the camera, apparently unconcerned about the awkward angle of the selfie, so we’re essentially looking right into the black holes of her nostrils. Regardless, the image has seven thousand likes and nearly four hundred comments, most of which are positive with lots of heart eyes and people telling her they love her.
“Why are you creeping on this woman?”
“I’m not creeping. I need to find a cat sitter.”
“But you have a dog,” he reminds me, as if I’m unaware that my four-legged friend isn’t the psychopathic variety.
“It’s my mom’s. She’s in the hospital, and we’re heading to Montreal tomorrow night, so I need to find someone to look after the little gremlin while we’re gone.” My mother has been relentlessly asking the hospital staff about Prince Francis and messages me almost hourly for updates.
“She’s still there?” Josh drops down into the chair across from me. “I thought she’d be out by now and that they were just checking her over. Is everything okay?”
Josh and I have been friends since middle school, and he’s very aware of my family history. “I figured she’d be out in a couple of days, but the doctors are running some tests and think there’s more going on and that she wasn’t sleepwalking or whatever.” I rub my temple, feeling the pressure there. Three days ago, the police picked up my mom after she was found wandering around in her pajamas and a pair of slippers in the middle of the night. When she couldn’t tell them where she lived, they brought her to the hospital, thinking maybe she’d been on some kind of drug or something.
“Why didn’t you tell me this until now? Can I do anything to help?”
I normally see my mom on birthdays and major holidays. Any other time I ever tried to stop by for a visit, she would cancel, or forget, or reschedule and forget again.
I message her regularly and call, but she has a habit of making me feel like crap for not calling more. Doesn’t matter if it’s weekly or monthly or every other day; she would make it seem like I hadn’t reached out in an eternity. Over the past year, my text messages and calls would often go unanswered for days, or sometimes longer. But now I’m starting to see that maybe it wasn’t her being passive-aggressive.
And since she’s been in the hospital, I’m fielding countless messages and several calls a day from her. “I talked to a doctor a couple of hours ago. They want to keep her for more tests. I’m still getting my head around it.”
In addition to the stress of my mother’s hospital stay, we had a team meeting this morning where the general manager announced that I would be traveling with them to some of the games. Which is great, because it means I’ll have more opportunities to prove the value of my role. But it’s unexpected, an added layer of complication, since it means I can’t be here to deal with my mother, and I need a dog sitter. The owner of the team is old-school and is on the fence about having me on board. Josh is the one who pushed for them to give me a chance, so I want to make sure I don’t let him down, or the team.
It’s a lot. I can’t afford to take time off to deal with my mom, not at this point in the season, anyway.
“Right. Yeah. Does your mom have any friends you can ask to help with the cat?” He taps on the arm of the chair.
I flip a pen between my fingers. “There are a couple of neighbors, but the only one who might be capable of helping is on some six-week cruise, so that’s out. And I’m sure as hell not bringing the thing back to my place.” I can only imagine the stress it would cause my dog, Wilfred. He’s a Dane, but he seems to think he’s a teacup poodle with the way he’s always trying to sit in my lap. Plus, based on how much my mother’s cat doesn’t like people, I don’t think I’m going out on a limb in assuming he’s not great with other animals.