Raven Oak
HUNGRY
This story is dedicated to ‘all the cats I’ve loved before.’
But especially O’Riley, O’Malley, and DiNozzo.
Get a cat, they said. You work from home, so it’ll be great, they said. Besides, with Cat-Speak 4.0, even an idiot can take care of a cat.
But I can’t even take care of me!
They had a thousand and one reasons and being the sucker I am, I caved. A cat owner I became.
What they hadn’t said was how toddler-esque a cat would be, how utterly time-consuming said cat would be, or how being owned by a cat would result in picking up the ball, throwing the ball, and then pleading with the cat to go get the damn ball.
Pantone peers at me over my laptop, his charcoal eyes unblinking in their silent plea, and I groan. Cat ownership might be new to me, but not that look; it’s the same one my mother uses every time I stave off going home for the holidays.
When I tap his white-splotched rear, Pantone hops off my desk with a light chirp that his collar fails to interpret.
My stylus moves across the touch-screen, adding droplets of color to the website logo. The mock-ups are due to Garner Tech in three hours, but I still have two to go this afternoon.
Pantone meows, and the collar translates in a slightly-flat digi-voice: I’M HUNGRY.
“You’re always hungry. Besides, it’s not even four,” I say, and Pantone cocks his head.
My email pings. Twice. I ignore it and continue working on the logo’s capital G, whose curve is less semi-circle and more angular. Does Garner Tech want something smooth and soothing? Or hardier—edgier… like a computer chip?
I’M HUNGRY.
Working from home had sounded like a good idea at the time. An incoming call message pops up on my screen. Probably my roommate calling to gripe about being a sardine on the rail home. I flick it off-screen to the mailbox.
Pantone hops up on my desk, and I give his ears a quick scritch, which he misreads as consent or approval.
I’M HUNGRY.
Red… is it too bloody looking? No one wants to associate a tech company with blood. Not after the latest child labor allegations. No, let’s try something richer. Garnet maybe? Nope. Way too newb and cliché.
I’M HUNGRY.
“Enough, Pantone.”
The garnet bleeds into the black outline too much for my tastes. “Undo,” I say, and the mess is removed. Maybe green is a better idea. A tuft of orange fur and claws reach around my screen to bat at my stylus.
One black streak slashes the capital G. “Undo,” I growl. Pantone hooks the stylus’s clip with a single claw and flings it at me where it bounces off my nose.
I’M HUNGRY.
Irritated as I am, it is sort of cute…. I growl as he bats the stylus off my desk. All fifteen pounds of him follow it to the floor. A few trills and purrs follow as he rakes it with his rear legs, and I sigh. “Turn off Cat-Speak translations until 5 PM.”
I’M —purr, purr, chirrup.
I fetch the stylus to a rumble of purrs and earn myself a scratch across three fingers. Maybe red will work better than green….
When three minutes of exposed belly doesn’t elicit the desired belly-scritches, Pantone leaps onto my desk with a scolding chirp. He rubs his muzzle, half-white and half-red, across the touch-screen’s monitor like maybe it will feed him if he just rubs it hard enough. If I could afford the app, it would. I shake my head at the distraction.
I touch my stylus to his muzzle to capture the color. There. A nice orangey-red for the logo. Perfect.
Pantone’s vocalizations accelerate the closer it grows to five. The closer it gets to my deadline.
Why did I agree to take him in? Oh yeah, because he’s cute. Sometimes.
The front door opens and closes in rapid succession. My peripheral vision confirms the presence of my roommate as I work on colorizing a sketch. As she enters the kitchen, she calls out, “Oooooo! Who’s the admirer?“
I wave my stylus in her direction. “Garner sent ‘em. I think they’re hoping to woo me with flowers.”
Joanie laughs. “Apparently they don’t know about your black thumb. The last flora that arrived is still here. It’s dead but has decided to pay rent.” She sets the lily’s vase on the dilapidated kitchen scanner. Its misaligned laser scans the vase and the alarm sounds. I close my eyes at the flash of light, and wish I could close my ears as well.
WARNING: SCANNER IS IN NEED OF REPAIR. GARNER TECH IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR INJURY FROM MISUSE. PLEASE CALL A CERTIFIED TECH—
“Silence warning!” I shout from my living room desk. The sink’s faucet releases a perfectly measured amount of water and tops off the vase.
“Thanks,” Joanie says. “Any idea when the repairman is coming?”
With a sigh, I set aside my stylus, which Pantone stretches a paw toward. “When I get paid.”
“So this Garner gig might be more than a temporary freelance?”
I follow Joanie’s gaze to Pantone, expecting my stylus to be a casualty on the floor, but it remains beside him as he watches me. The orange ring is but a sliver next to his wide pupils pooling with… it isn’t hunger. No, something else. Sadness? Argh, cats don’t get sad. They’re just cats. Damn collar’s turned off. No wonder I have no idea what he wants.
I shake my head and say, “Maybe. But not if I don’t finish these designs.”
Joanie mimes zipping her lips and sets the lily on the counter. Pantone watches her retreat to the bathroom without comment.
“You okay, bud?” I whisper and dangle the stylus over his head. His eyes follow it a moment before he rests his head on his front paws. “Moping won’t get you fed any faster. It didn’t get Puss-In-Boots fed any faster either, no matter what those old movies say.”
Pantone closes his eyes.
I’m halfway through the last design when Pantone leans his shoulder into my laptop and the screen tilts forty-five degrees. He sets his paw on its metal shell and shuts my laptop with a snap. The wall-clock chimes as he purrs. Five o’clock.
The LED light on his collar flips to green as Cat-Speak 4.0 turns itself on. Pantone blinks slowly at me and opens his mouth. I HURT.
“I know you’re hungry—wait, what?”
Pantone stares at me but doesn’t say anything else. “You hurt? Where?” I push my laptop aside to better reach him and run my hands across his back. No response. I gently massage his belly and hips as I’ve seen the vet do on television. Other than some squirming, nothing.
Is that good or bad? Has the collar malfunctioned?
I pull out the treat bag from my desk drawer. Rather than slink around my ankles, he remains still, and when I toss two treats on the desk, he only sniffs them.
“You love tuna-treats,” I say and shake the bag. He continues to stare at me.
I pop open my laptop. “Call Dr. Bruester.”
The video call connects and the regular receptionist is packing up her poodle-shaped purse. “Sunset Veterinary Clinic—this is Stacey. How may I help you, Melana?” She waves at Pantone as he drapes himself across my keyboard. His tail, which usually wags with trouble, lies still.
“Pantone’s collar.. well, it translated something a minute ago, and I’m really not sure what to do. Or if there’s anything actually wrong…”
“What did Pantone say?” she asks.
“He said, ‘I hurt.’ Does he really? I mean, earlier he was just fine. What’s wrong with him?” Stacey frowns as she sets her purse on the counter. “Occasionally Cat-Speak 4.0 will mix up expressions of contentment or enjoyment, but its pain sensors are very sophisticated. If he says he hurts, he’s feeling pain. I would recommend you bring him in so Dr. Bruester can examine him.”