Boo

Kittens were a handful. I knew that beforehand, before adopting the little guy that I have now, but didn't fully grasp just how much attention they needed. Growing up, we'd always had adult cats, or at least I never remembered the periods when they were younger. We always seemed to have one or two around, however, and I suppose that's why I made the decision to adopt one when I moved into my own place. It didn't feel right not to have one of the demanding fuzzballs running around my feet or claiming my pillows when I wanted to go to bed.

He was named Boo, although the name wasn't my choice. Boo was the offspring of an alley cat which had been taken to the local shelter when the mother cat was found at a murder scene. Some guy, recently released from rehab or prison or something, found between two apartment buildings and shoved behind the dumpster both shared. Boo's mother was nibbling on the guy's face or toe or something of the sort when the police showed up. After the mother died in birth - an event that only Boo survived among the entire litter - he'd been graciously taken in by a foster family until he was old enough to be adopted out. They were the ones who chose the name.

Fitting, I suppose, given how much he likes jumping out of nowhere and scaring the shit out of me from time to time. Even my dog, an older member of my family that I've had since high school, isn't safe from Boo's pranks. The poor dog can never get a moment's rest and avoids Boo when he can. The two don't really get along, but I suppose with Oreo's age, he isn't likely to get along with such an energetic little furball. It's good thing that other things catch the little guy's attention, like the couch pillows, the curtains, and whatever bug flies or crawls too close.

It's this that I think about as I make my way home after an early shift at work. Boo always seemed to be following something with his eyes, playfully batting at it or jumping into the air to snap at it with his mouth. I've found a number of spiders and moths on the foot of my bed from these antics. Once or twice there was even a small bird, though I don't know how he would have managed to catch any of those. He's not able to get outside. No matter how disgusted or upset I am with his gifts, however, he always responds with a cute little stretch and a tilt upwards of the head, seeming rather proud of himself. Sometimes it even seems like he's smiling at me and while waking up to a bed full of bugs isn't all that great, I can't stay mad at him for long. As I unlock my apartment door and step through, I decide I should buy him a new toy. The last few are already torn to shreds and it won't be long before he decides to drag his claws through the curtains again. But the first thing on my schedule is a nap. It's been quite a while since I've been up this early, let alone working hard labor while I'm at it, and I'm utterly exhausted. A few hours of rest won't hurt.

I head straight to my bedroom, kicking off my shoes at the front door and throwing my jacket on the back of the couch as I pass through. I've barely stepped through my rooms door when a cold stone drops in my stomach and it feels like my lungs have been momentarily deflated. A split second later, my eyes fall onto the black and white mass of my dog at the foot of my bed; his shaggy hair is torn out in patches and in a disarray, his body still and his back twisted in an unnatural way.

Not a moment after, Boo jumps up onto my bed from the side opposite of me and I jump even more than I usually would have. It's enough to pull me out of my shock and finally take in a deep, shaky breath. There's already a pressure building up between my eyes and a lump forming in my throat.

Boo arches his back, pushing up onto his toes. He sits down, tail waving lazily and head tilted back, seeming rather proud of himself. It even seems like he's smiling at me.

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