Emily Rinkema

After my third terrible date in two weeks, I come home exhausted, determined never to leave the house again. Dirk, my cat, is sitting on the kitchen table. He has what appears to be a gin and tonic in front of him and he says he can’t take it anymore, that he’s leaving me. 

I’ve never heard him speak. He has a Scottish accent. He’s much more articulate than I imagined.

I set my keys on the counter and slide into the chair nearest to him. “Why?” I ask. It’s maybe not the first question I should be asking. I mean, has he been a drinker for long? Can he read? Were his parents Scottish? How did he cut the lime?

“Laura,” he says. 

“Louise,” I say.

“Lucy,” he says, “I’m bored.” He laps from the glass in front of him. “I need more than you can give me. I want to cavort. I want to roam. I want to go outside.”

“But you’re an indoor cat,” I say. “You like being bored. You’re so good at it.” 

He pushes his drink towards me and stops it just before it goes over the edge into my lap. I don’t know whether this is an offering or a threat. I choose it to be the former and take a large sip. Definitely a gin and tonic, and I need it. My date tonight was the worst one yet. I thought it might be fun to start dating again, that it could be exciting. My sister said it would be good for me to get out, to have a reason to shave my legs. Maybe I’d even build back a tiny bit of confidence after being left by my husband for a woman who “knows what she fucking wants.” But each date has been worse than the one before, and we weren’t even through appetizers tonight before Karl with a K asked if I was “furry curious.” I cocked my head like a dog, then excused myself and left through the back exit. Doesn’t knowing what I don’t want count for something?

Dirk rolls over on his side, exposing his white belly. I shake my head. “Not falling for that,” I say, and then, quietly, “Please don’t leave me.”

  Should I call the vet? Maybe I should text my sister. Maybe I should Google “talking cats.” Maybe I should hide the knives.

I push the drink back to him, a peace offering, a bribe. He bats at it with his paws for a moment and then sits up, laps it, laps some more, keeps lapping.

“It’s awful out there,” I tell him. “It’s not what you imagine. You have everything you need to be happy right here. The couch, the fireplace, the counters, the top of the refrigerator, that tiny space behind the TV. Me. And besides,” I say, not making eye contact, “I would notice if you were gone.” 

“Oh Lisa,” he says. 

“Louise.” 

“Stop being desperate,” he says. “It will be good for you to be alone for a while, maybe figure out your shit.” 

I hate him. I hate him so much I want to burst into tears, to scream, to throw the glass against the wall. I’m fine on my own. I like who I am. I like my sweatpants and my reading chair and my pro-con lists on the fridge. I’m okay being 38 and not knowing what I want to be or who I want to be with or if I want kids or where I want to live. I’m perfectly happy waking up unsure about the day and going to bed confused about the world and never knowing if the decision I’m about to make is the right or wrong one. Besides, I won’t be on my own. I have friends. I have a sister. I’ll go on more dates, maybe. And I have the dog, who loves me no matter what the fuck I know or don’t know.

“Dirk,” I say, getting up from the table. “Where’s the dog?”

“Dog?” He stretches one leg out. He licks his sphincter. I hear a low whine coming from upstairs, paws scratching at the bathroom door. I’m so tired. It’s not even nine o’clock and all I know right now is that I want to crawl into bed and watch House Hunters. Dirk looks at me from beneath his leg. 

“Lila,” he says.

I take away his drink. I drink his drink. I let him out.

What Emily said about the prompt:
I have been a dog person my whole life, as has my husband, and then one night, after a gin and tonic that was likely too strong, we decided to adopt a cat. I mean, a cat’s just a low-maintenance dog, right? Now, 8 years later, we still watch Jack with a mixture of adoration, respect, fear, and complete confusion. We are no closer to understanding who or what he is, but we wouldn’t trade of second of our time with him…okay, maybe we’d trade the time he brought the live snake in the house during an important Zoom presentation…

Emily Rinkema lives in northern Vermont with Bill, Chet, and Jack Reacher the Cat. She’s terrified of sinkholes, which she just mistyped as skinholes, and now she’s also terrified of those. You can read her work at https://www.emilyrinkema.com/
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