That Stupid Stork
cats
Maisie had lived in the house for four years, and in that time she had perfected every route. Fourteen steps from the food bowl to the water dish. Twenty-two from the bedroom door to the sunny spot beneath the front window. She knew the creak of the third stair, the soft give of the carpet upstairs, the precise location of every piece of furniture. The world came to her through whiskers and ears and the sensitive pads of her feet, and it was a world she had mapped completely.
The house belonged to her. This was not opinion but fact.
She was dreaming of birds, their wingbeats a symphony she could feel in her bones, when the front door opened and everything changed.
Two new scents invaded her territory. Young. Uncertain. And unmistakably feline.
Maisie’s ears flattened.
“It’s okay, girl,” said the soft voice that meant food and chin scratches. Hands lifted her from the armchair. “You’re going to have some company for a while.”
Company. Maisie did not need company. She had her routines, her patches of sunlight, her evening spot at the foot of the bed. She had everything a cat could need.
But then something small and chaotic launched itself at her tail.
She hissed, spinning, and felt the intruder scramble backward. A kitten. The smell was unmistakable now that it was close. Two of them, actually. One that smelled of leaf litter and alley dust, another that carried the faint chemical tang of a veterinary clinic still clinging to its fur.
“Moxie, no,” said the deeper voice, the one that always forgot to refill her water bowl on time. “Give Maisie some space.”
The kitten, apparently Moxie, did not give Maisie space. He gave her approximately three seconds of peace before pouncing at her ear.
Maisie boxed him soundly and stalked away to find somewhere, anywhere, that did not contain kittens.
The days that followed were an exercise in patience Maisie had not known she possessed.
Moxie was everywhere. Under her feet when she walked to her food bowl. Batting at her tail when she tried to nap. Chattering endlessly at birds through the window as if he had never learned that dignity required silence. The other one, Bagheera, was quieter but somehow worse. She liked to appear without warning, a shadow that materialized beside Maisie on the couch or at the water dish, her presence announced only by the soft brush of fur against fur.
Maisie could not see them coming. That was the worst part. For years she had known exactly where everything in her house belonged, and now there were two small agents of chaos rearranging the world without her permission.
“She’ll warm up to them,” said the soft voice one evening. Maisie was wedged behind the couch, the only place the kittens had not yet discovered. “She just needs time.”
Maisie did not need time. She needed her house back.
But the house, it seemed, had other plans.
It happened on a Thursday. Maisie had found a new sunbeam, a particularly good one that pooled on the window seat overlooking the backyard this time of the year. The glass was cool against her side, the warmth of the sun soaking into her fur, and for the first time in weeks she felt something close to peace.
Then a small body thumped onto the cushion beside her.
Moxie. She could tell by his graceless landing and the way he immediately began kneading the fabric, purring like a broken motor.
She tensed, ready to swat him away, but he didn’t pounce. He didn’t bite her ear or bat at her whiskers. He simply curled himself against her side, a warm weight that rose and fell with his breathing.
Another thump. Lighter this time, more precise. Bagheera settled on her other side, a shadow pooling against her flank.
Maisie’s claws flexed.
The kittens were touching her. Invading her sunbeam. Taking liberties that had not been extended. She should drive them away, reassert her dominance, remind them that this house and everything in it belonged to her alone.
Moxie’s purr stuttered, then resumed, softer now. Uncertain.
Bagheera’s nose pressed briefly against Maisie’s shoulder, and a small sound escaped her. Not quite a meow. Something younger. Needier.
They were warm.
Maisie’s claws slowly retracted.
Fine. She would allow this. Just once. Just for the sunbeam, which was really exceptionally good today, warm enough that it would be a waste not to share. That was the only reason. The kittens were convenient heat sources, nothing more. Certainly not family. Certainly not anything she had grown accustomed to, despite herself, over these strange and chaotic weeks.
Moxie’s purr grew stronger. Bagheera added her own, a higher counterpoint that vibrated through Maisie’s fur.
And after a long moment, almost against her will, Maisie began to purr too.