Orange Crush

I saw him there in the cage, a sweet young kitty the color of clementines. OK, so I didn't yet know he was sweet, but when I picked him up, cuddled him up to my shoulder--and he didn't squirm away--I thought, he could be it. He could be it. He. Could. Be. It! 

At 9 months old, he'd spent his whole life in the shelter, minus the month he was straying around the supermarket in early kittenhood. His cage card didn't tell me much, really, but I honed in on his intake date. Wait, did that really say April 27? My birthday?

I clutched him closer to me, trying to get a good look at his face as every little thing caught his eye from his human perch: the terrier twins being walked through the shelter; the 20-something trio stopping to admire his ebony cage-mates; the adoption counselors juggling the phones, the paperwork and the steady stream of people coming in on a bitterly cold Wednesday afternoon. I smelled his excitement, and I shared it:  Life! Beyond the cage! Imagine!

I didn't want to put him back. Surely the signals this little guy had sent me... he'd be sending to someone else! Oh my goodness, look at all those people walking near the cat cages. Opening the doors. Reaching in. I couldn't bear it. I had to act!

"I'd like to put in an app on Rusty," I casually told the lady behind the desk. And did she smile! After eight long months in the shelter, maybe... he'd gotten a home?

I turned in the adoption application and set up a time to pick him up: on Friday, two days later, at 3:30. The shelter is closed on Thursdays, so I'd have to wait. Two days. Man. Two days! Two days to do nothing but think about him, picture him in my house, dream about what expressions I'd find on that silly sweet face over the next 15 to 20 years.