-2-

With no one else around to stop me from making what could be a horrible decision, the cat is in my arms before I can change my mind. He doesn't even protest when I pick him up; instead, curling into my chest like it's the only place he wants to be. I can see his coloring better now, noticing the white on his chin that runs along his belly and confirming the white paws. Some of his little paw pads are black, and some are pink, and it's kind of the cutest thing I've ever seen.

It's nice having a warm body against me. Been way too long.

And I don't even mean in a sexy way or anything. Just a companion so you're not so lonely.

I set him up a water bowl in my room, talking to him the whole way, and I make a makeshift litter box out of an old crate lined with a trash bag filled with some sand I had left from leveling Mrs. Clearwater's pool last year. Tomorrow I'll get him fixed up, but that'll have to do for now.

I expect him to hide under the couch or something. Animals usually do when they're in a new place. But he surprises me by hopping in my lap when I go to watch TV, and I instantly notice he's favoring his back right leg, holding it up, so he doesn't have to put pressure on it.

"What happened here, bud?" I soothe, glancing at his eyes that are full of fear and hurt. My fingers are careful when they brush back his fur, thick and stuck together with blood to reveal a gash. It's hard to see how bad it is, but it doesn't look good, and I hiss at the sight cause the poor boy can't be feeling too good.

"Come on, let's try and clean you up."

I scoop him up and head to the bathroom, where I have a regular human first aid kit. It won't do much good, but it'll get him patched up till I can get him to the vet tomorrow.

When I turn the water on to wet a washcloth, he flinches, scared at the sudden sound, but he's still not fighting me. It makes me wonder what this poor boy has been through to be so scared yet so calm. His fur isn't matted aside from the cut, and he seems mostly clean. He's not emaciated or malnourished. Somebody owned this cat and cared for him, so I wonder what happened to make him wind up in my junkyard.

I keep talking to him as I gently wipe away the blood and dirt with warm water, my soft words telling him how good he's being and how I'm going to take care of him.

It feels a little silly talking to an animal that doesn't have the capacity to answer me. I know he can't talk back, yet I can't stop keeping the conversation going on as I pat the area with gauze and wrap a bandage around his leg to keep it in place. He meows a few times but otherwise stays calm like he knows I'm here to help him.

I carry him to bed with me when I go, and he must not be too mad cause he curls right underneath my chin, purring and kneading me like I'm the best friend he's ever had.

And, I sleep better than I have for a long time.