But the idea that he was predictable to the point of being dull nagged at him the rest of the week. By Saturday morning, Hathaway resolved to find a somewhat controlled way to introduce a bit of chaos into his life. Or at least a little unpredictability. He went for a long run along the towpath. A run was always a good time to think, and the straight towpath, his usual route for a long run, would present him with no distractions.
He had just passed the locks by The Trout when his ears picked up a strange sound. A weak crying, almost like a baby, or a mewing cat. He stopped and scanned the area, but saw nothing unusual. Then he heard the sound again, on his left side, away from the canal. He approached the underbrush, parting the overgrown grass, and saw a somewhat scruffy, white cat. Its head was stuck inside a tin. The cat did not seem to be struggling much; it just sat, pawing at the tin a little, occasionally mewing.
It was obvious the poor creature was in desperate need of help. Although he was not particularly fond of cats, or any animal for that matter, Hathaway easily pitied the helpless creature and felt an obligation to do for it what he could. Warily, James came near the poor thing, speaking softly, and when it didn't react, he clasped it under the forelegs with a strong grasp. The cat did not struggle as he had feared. Instead, it went limp. Relieved that he wasn't fighting sharp claws, and rather concerned that the animal had simply given up, James tried to pull the tin off, but it was stuck fast and he didn't want to injure the cat's neck or ears.
He tucked the cat under his arm and jogged back to his flat. He grabbed his keys, a towel, and his wallet, then he laid the cat on the passenger seat of his car on top of the towel and sped to the veterinarian clinic at the top of the next street over.
He waited rather anxiously while the clinic staff worked on the cat. Eventually, the fresh-faced veterinarian came out from the back of the clinic.
"Mister Hathaway?" she asked. He stood up and followed her to an examination room.
The cat was crouched in the center of the stainless steel table, clearly uncomfortable and on edge. The tin had been removed, but the cat bore several bloody scratches around its ears. It looked at him with squinty, narrowed eyes. Hathaway was surprised to see that one of its eyes was a brilliant blue and the other a clear, crystalline green.
The veterinarian held out her hand. "I'm Doctor Ashton." She seemed young, James thought—younger than himself—and quite small, but with a wiry build that would allow her to outpower all but the largest dogs. "She's a little dehydrated, but surprisingly calm considering what she's been through. There are some scratches here—" Dr. Ashton pointed to the angry red welts behind the cat's ears. "I'm afraid there was no way to get the tin off without pulling a bit." She stroked the cat along its back and when her hand reached the tail, the cat's hind legs straightened and her back end rose considerably above her shoulders.
Dr. Ashton continued. "She's a really nice cat, isn't she? I'm going to prescribe a topical antibiotic; just rub it over those scratches twice a day and you won't have to worry about infection. And don't let her outside at least until these are healed. Now, is she up to date on her vaccinations?"
Hathaway finally confessed that the cat wasn't his, he had only found it in this desperate state. "I can't take it back home. It's not mine and I don't have any way of taking care of a cat."
Dr. Ashton gave him a funny look. "There's no one else to care for her until you find the owner. She's not critical, so she doesn't need to stay here and it would only add to her distress. All you have to do is feed her, put the antibiotic on her, and give her a litterbox until her owner is found. It's not hard." She looked as if she considered the possibility that Hathaway was a bit of a simpleton. "If you don't think you're capable of that, of course . . ."
"No, I can do it, I just want to be clear I'm not the proper owner." Hathaway couldn't figure if he was doing this to prove something to her. Or possibly to Lewis. And anyway, wasn't he looking for a way to add a little spontaneity to his life? "I mean, she seems like a nice cat, she must belong to somebody."
Dr. Ashton smiled warmly. "You're a good person, Mister Hathaway. Let me know if you need any more help with . . ." she looked at him curiously. "What name are we putting for this cat?"
No question there. The slanted, beautiful eyes and feline grace. The way the animal insinuated itself—herself—into James's life and would likely just as easily abandon him made only one name truly appropriate in his view.
"Fiona."
One last question occurred to him. "How do I train her to use the litterbox?"
Dr. Ashton smiled. "No need to train her. Just put it where she can find it. She'll know what to do."
Hathaway arrived home not too long afterward, having made a detour to purchase the equipment and supplies he lacked. Dr. Ashton had secured Fiona in a cardboard box, which he now set in the middle of the floor and cautiously opened.
The cat crouched in one corner of the box, trying to make herself as small as possible. Hathaway perched on the edge of the sofa and waited.
Two hours later, he was semi-reclined, reading, his glass of wine half gone. A small dish of cat food sat on the floor next to the box, untouched. A soft sound of movement from within the box caught James's attention. He watched as Fiona slithered over the side of the box and scurried, belly to the ground, under a large chair.
Fine. Don't know why I let myself get conned into bringing you home in the first place. I don't even like cats, especially.
James reminded himself that he was just caretaking until the real owner was found. Still, he had to admit that his feelings were just a tiny bit hurt by the ingratitude shown toward his efforts.
The cat had not come out by the time Hathaway went to bed. Concerned that she would not find the litterbox, he put it right next to the chair. He folded a soft towel and put it in the cardboard box, hoping she would find that a comfortable bed.
"Well, goodnight, Fiona. Tomorrow we'll put up some signs and try to find your owner."
* * *