Free Cats

He was on his way to the studio when he saw it.

"FREE CATS," the sign said. It was scrawled on a piece of cardboard, damp from the rain, with a black sharpie, and had been propped up against the side of a box. The box was sitting on the corner of the street, ignored by everyone who passed it.

He couldn't resist.

He pulled over and got out of his car, for once not even minding the rain that ruined his styled hair and soaked his sweater and blurred his vision. The box, he saw, hadn't even been covered; the poor creatures trapped inside had no protection from the downpour. At the bottom of the box, two wet, miserable balls of fur were curled around each other.

Carefully—he knew the temperament of cats, especially when they had a cause to be angry already—he reached one hand into the box and stroked the back of the dark cat, the one that was black spotted with white. It was soaked through to the bone, wet fur matted to its tiny body, and he could feel the small frame shaking beneath his hand. It didn't seem to mind his touch, so he reached down further to scoop it up—it was hardly bigger than the size of his hand—and cradled it in his arms.

It couldn't have been more than a few days old. Its tiny eyes were still screwed shut, although that might have been from the rain; its small nose twitched. After a few minutes, its tremors were replaced by a more subtle vibration; it was purring.

"You're mine," he told it, overcome by a warm feeling of affection for the creature. As if it understood his words, the little kitten snuggled closer into the crook of his elbow. As if it trusted him already.

He was about to turn away when he remembered the other cat. He couldn't just leave that one there, not after taking its sibling away and leaving it all alone. So with his free hand, he reached back into the box and carefully pulled the second kitten out. If possible, this one was even smaller: curled into a ball, it was about the size of his palm. It had tortoise-shell fur, mostly white with rusty patches that were made darker by the rain.

Satisfied, he made his way back to his car. He placed the two kittens on the back seat, where they immediately curled up against each other and fell asleep, before climbing into the front seat and continuing on his way.


When Matt entered the studio, shaking the rain off his coat and stomping his wet shoes against the doormat, the first thing he saw was Josh sitting cross-legged on the floor. Beside him was a bowl with what appeared to be milk in it; he was cradling two small balls of fur in his hands.

"What's going on?" he asked, confused; he had expected to see Josh at work in the recording booth, a guitar in his hands and a headset over his ears, as he so often was when Matt arrived at their sessions. As he walked further into the room, he saw that the two balls of fur in Josh's arms had tiny pink noses, small fuzzy ears, and eyes that were still tightly shut.

Josh had brought cats to the studio. Young ones, too, by the look of it—hardly a week out of their mother's belly. Where the hell had Josh found two baby cats?

"Aren't they adorable?" Josh asked, not even sparing a glance at Matt. His gaze was focused on his new pets, and a tender smile had come over his face. Matt didn't think he had ever seen Josh look at something with such loving care before—not even a new guitar.

"Where the hell did you find two baby cats?" Matt asked.

"On the street," Josh said offhandedly.

"Josh," Matt sighed, "you can't just…"

"This isn't like that time when we were teenagers," Josh defended himself. "There was a sign saying they were free and everything. And it was raining and they looked so miserable…"

Matt knew how Josh was about cats. Repressing another sigh, he went and sat next to his best friend and bandmate. "They are cute," he admitted. There was something about the miniature faces and tiny, furry bodies that was charming and irresistible—and this was coming from Matt, who had hated cats since he was seven, since a neighbourhood tom had leapt at him from behind a dumpster and left a long scratch down the side of his face. He stroked at the soft fur with his index finger and was surprised to feel the tiny body move beneath his touch.

"I found some milk in the fridge for them," Josh said. "I don't know how old it was, but they seemed to like it just fine."

"Have you thought of a name for them yet?" Matt asked.

"Not yet. This one's a boy though," Josh said, gesturing to the black-and-white one, "and this one's his little sister."

"He looks almost like he's wearing a suit," Matt said with a smile. "A little black and white tuxedo."

"I could call him that. Tuxedo. Tux for short." As if he knew they were talking about him, the small cat nudged at Josh's hand with his nose. "See? I think he likes it."

"What about his sister? What are you going to call her?"

Fondly, Josh ruffled at the tortoise shell fur, so the rusted patches seemed to ripple across her back. "Anemone," he said suddenly.

"Anemone?" Matt raised his eyebrows. "Where'd that come from?"

"I don't know. But it fits her, don't you think?"

"Yeah," Matt said slowly, reaching out with his hand again. A small, rough tongue licked at his palm. "It does."

He had never really liked cats, but he thought, given the time, he could learn to love these ones.