unsurety

I don't drive out to the outer suburbs much, and navigate the lanes around the mall with some trepidation. I get lost in subdivisions and cul-de-sacs where the names run together, usually conjuring up images of nature scenes and old estates in the British isles but instead bare lawns and generic architecture of new money. I call her when I realize I don't have directions and it takes a couple turns through this development to get there.

My landlady's friend's friend answers the door and she's very nice, welcomes me in, and shows me where the cat is hiding behind the couch. The little one was spayed yesterday so she's sore and cranky and while she sits on my lap, she's skittish and growling and muttering. I guess I'd probably be the same way if someone removed my uterus so it doesn't bother me. She's tiny, with black fur tinged slightly auburn, five pounds of scaredness, yellow eyes avoiding my gaze.

I bring her home and she's somewhat chill in the car, making the occasional sad noises that break my heart. I hope that Mike Patton's voice isn't driving her crazy, and when I bring her up the stairs and let her out, it takes me a half hour to find her again, huddled behind the couch. I can understand being freaked out, so I set up a corner for her with ample hiding spots, food and litter in a side room behind the curtain and bring her over there. From behind one of the paintings unhung, she purrs, and I think she'll be okay in a few days, and I hope she gets along well with the other one.