Hopelessly Devoted(2)

“You are my equal. Maybe not in salary, but there are other ways to be in balance with each other. You bring so much to our relationship, to our home. And I’m not talking about Dave.” He tried to lighten the conversation, but I could sense the truth in his words. “Will you change your mind after we’re married?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “Please let me pay my way, I don’t know how to be comfortable doing anything else.”

Paul gathered me in his arms, holding me tight against his chest and burying his face in my unruly hair. “Fine, I give. But once we’re married what’s mine is yours.”

At that point we hadn’t discussed the pre-nup.





CHAPTER TWO




NOT LONG after I moved in, we had a problem with Dave. It seemed my cat had taken quite a liking to Paul’s shoes and peed in them whenever we left the closet door open, whether he’d been fed or not. Paul had been at his wits end trying to scrub the smell of cat urine out of his expensive loafers and it had caused more than a few fights between us.

It all came to a head when Paul was working from home one Thursday afternoon. I had stopped by our local Chinese after work to pick up dinner, and as I entered the apartment, I was assaulted by the smell of disinfectant and Paul’s yells.

“Get back here you little pissing machine!”

Dave darted past me, around the kitchen, and up the stairs, heading to his cat-flap that led to the small terrace garden on the roof. Paul was hot on his heels, naked apart from his boxer briefs, his hair wet from a recent shower, clutching the water spray bottle we used to squirt Dave when he’d done something wrong.

“Your f*cking cat!” Paul yelled at me as he ran past, taking the steps two at a time after Dave.

Yes, it was my f*cking cat when Dave peed in Paul’s shoes, but when Dave wanted a cuddle he was all Paul’s. I rolled my eyes at Paul’s retreating back.

I placed the takeout boxes on the counter and gathered plates and cutlery from the drawer as I waited for Paul to return. I knew Dave would be fine. There’s a hidey-hole in amongst the garden planters where he hides from the spray bottle, big enough for him to fit but too small for a human to get to him. My cat wasn’t stupid. He wouldn’t come out until Paul had left or Dave thought sufficient time had passed for Paul to calm down.

Paul came down the stairs with a scowl on his face and a full squirt bottle in his hand as I finished dishing up dinner.

“I’m tearing out the planters this weekend. The f*cker won’t be able to hide so easily then.”

I almost laughed, but the look on Paul’s face said I better not. I remembered what it was like to have your shoes smell like piss.

“How many this time?” I asked instead.

“Three.”

“Shoes or pairs?”

“Pairs.”

“Damn.” That was a lot of pee for a small cat. “What were they doing on the floor anyway? You’re supposed to put them on the shelves. That’s why you had that fancy-ass closet built to begin with.”

So not the right thing to say.

Paul fumed as he paced the kitchen, knocking one of the stools over next to the island bench. It clattered to the floor. “I shouldn’t f*cking have to! Your stupid cat should learn not to pee in my goddamn shoes. Why he leaves yours alone, I have no idea.” He paused and ran his fingers through his drying hair. “He has to go. I can’t have him pissing everywhere, and I refuse to buy more shoes. Not to mention the carpet-cleaning bill. We’ll take him to an animal shelter as soon as the little bastard comes out.”

Here’s the thing with me and Dave. I found him on the street when he was a kitten—no home, no family. A lot like myself back then. Unwanted. I was a waiter at the time, and Dave had been abandoned in a dumpster behind the restaurant where I worked. I was just about to throw in a bag of trash at the end of my lunch shift, when I heard his faint, strangled meow. It was a cry for help I recognized. I uncovered him from the rubbish that had been dumped on him, and he looked at me with big green eyes and a mouth that opened and shut with no sound. I swear he said please help me. I remember feeling just like he looked when I was ousted from my family home with nowhere to go and no one to ask for help. I had been as abandoned as he was.

The small kitten mewled and tried to climb away from the stench, but a frayed cord from a discarded child’s backpack was wrapped around his back leg, and his claws couldn’t get any purchase against the metal sides of the dumpster. His mousy brown fur was matted with filth and grease. I dropped my trash into another dumpster and pulled the little guy out. He was all skin and bones, and I could feel his heart beating against my palm as I cradled him against my chest. I untied the cord from his back leg and saw the nametag of the child who had once owned the bag.

Dave.

After running my hands over his tiny head and body to make sure he was uninjured, I placed Dave back in the dumpster and closed the lid, promising to be back in five minutes. It was the end of my shift at the restaurant, and as I left the kitchen I snatched some extra chicken before I grabbed my bag and said goodbye to my co-workers.

I took Dave home with me that afternoon. I bathed him, which really wasn’t much fun for either of us. Even as a tiny, starving kitten, Dave’s sharp teeth and claws could sink into soft flesh quite easily, but afterward I think he was happy to be clean as he lifted his hind leg in the air and lapped at his teeny balls. I was a little bloody and scratched up, but it was worth it to see him clean and licking himself, a soft purr starting in his puny chest. I fed him bits of the meat I’d pilfered from work and let him sleep on my bed.