A Return to Pants

Calley wasn’t a self-centered easily-entertained innocuously-nefarious low-on-morals-but-high-on-energy cat. In fact, he wasn’t a cat at all.

But the lawyer who lived in the expensive three-bedroom flat who had spent all of December taking a little white and black stray out to expensive kitty spas for lavender-rinse baths and nail trims didn’t know that. And Calley wasn’t going to be the one to tell him. Especially since the man was so deliriously happy that his precious Whiskies had come back that morning.

“Here you go, Whiskies,” the man cooed, spooning expensive canned cat food—two guesses what the brand was—into a porcelain cat dish with a posy pattern around the rim. Calley briefly wondered if it was past its expiration date, but decided not to let it worry him. He arched up his back and purred as the man petted him. Then he nibbled in an uppity manner at the food—that always seemed to amuse this guy. “I checked all the shelters after you disappeared, Whiskies. I should’ve known you could take care of yourself. Oh yes you can. Who’s my big tough alley cat?”

Calley had a flash of insight into why he’d ditched this guy.

“Now I have to go to work, Whiskies—oh, don’t give me that look—” What look? He had not been giving the guy any look. He’d been licking roast duck flavored beef off of his whiskers, thank-you-very-much. “But I’ll be back at six. Okay?” The guy messed with the fur on Calley’s head. “You have a good day, little fellow.”

Calley watched the desperately lonely man close and lock the door of his expensive flat. There were starving children in Africa who would feel sorry for that guy. It almost made him feel bad that he was about to steal the man’s pants.

And, you know, a couple of shirts, maybe some silverware. He figured he’d let his heart guide him.

Approximately a half-hour later, a sharply dressed young man with short brown hair, baby blue eyes, and a black overnight duffle straining its seams stepped out of the flat, and politely closed the door behind himself. Then he wiped the doorknob down for fingerprints with his blue button-up shirt, and wandered off towards the elevator, whistling cheerfully. And here he’d thought the guy was bigger than he was. Nope—apparently Calley had grown some since he’d last been human. The blue Banana Republic dress shirt fit perfectly. So did the faux-Italian storm gray suit coat. And the glorious glory of the coat’s matching pants—oh yes, with their ironed-in creases and their sublime cotton weave—those fit just right, too. Even the snappy black dress shoes (with that tap-clop sound they made as he walked) were only a little bigger than he’d have preferred.

He strolled out the front doors, smiled up at that wonderful New York summer haze, and took in a deep breath of that beautiful smothering-with-humidity morning air. Later, he’d head back to the Sanctuary and try to talk quickly and not get killed by world-domineering plotters, a young lady whose bed he’d been shamelessly sharing, and a grumpy redhead who wouldn’t appreciate knowing that the furry shape that had been actively bugging her was fully sentient. Also, he’d have to explain to Receptionator Lisa why the seventeen-year-old in the fancy suit wanted to stay in a homeless shelter. He figured he could pull the mutant card, but then he’d have to listen to The Schpeal. He was not looking forward to The Schpeal. But for now, he was on a leisurely stroll towards the nearest pawn shop with discrete owners. His shoes tap-clopped happily all the way.

Oh, pants. I’ve missed you so.

((ooc: Continued in "Hunter's Apartment".))