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Cat People
Violet
"Get a cat," Josh had said.
It had been late at night. C.J. watched the eleven o'clock news on two channels at once, without devoting much attention to either of them. She closed her office up and wandered down the hall, lingering in Josh's doorway and watching him read.
"Bon soir, Joshua."
He looked up. "You speak French?"
"Not particularly, no."
"What are you doing here?"
She shrugged. "Killing time."
"There's nothing going on here."
"I know."
"Aren't you done for the night?"
"Done working? Yes." She smiled. "Done bothering you? Not so much."
Josh looked baffled. "What'd I do?"
"Nothing special. You're just here. Toby and Sam are in overdrive right now, you know, words pouring forth like liquid from a stream and all that. Everyone else is either busy, or they've gone home."
"You could go home," he pointed out.
"But who would I bother there?"
"You're staying at work at midnight on a Thursday just because you don't have anyone to bother at home?" He shook his head. "This is sad, C.J."
"I know."
"You couldn't just do what everyone does and watch the Weather Channel or something?"
"Not as much fun."
"You need a life."
"I know," she said sadly.
He gave her a sympathetic smile. "I do have work to do. Go home and sleep, crazy lady."
"I guess." She had started to walk back down the corridor.
He'd yelled after her. "Get a cat."
And she thought about it. Her family had had dogs when she was growing up -- or tried to have dogs; it seemed they always had medical problems or lousy personalities or ran away from home. There had been a golden retriever with hip dysplasia, a St. Bernard with scabies, and a chocolate lab that chewed everything, but never cats.
In her first apartment after college, she'd started feeding a straggly stray kitten, but it had been chased away by her neighbor's vicious orange tabby. And then her landlord hadn't allowed pets, and then she'd moved in with an allergic boyfriend. Then she'd started working such long hours that it didn't make sense to take on a pet, and then she'd moved to Washington.
She still worked long hours, but cats were easy. You left out a dish of food, you came home, you changed the litter and the water and maybe bought a catnip mouse with a bell. In exchange, you got a rub around the ankles when you walked in the door, and maybe a purr now and then. It couldn't be that complicated.
"So I'm thinking of doing it," she said. "What do you think?"
Carol rolled her eyes. "You've been talking about it for three days now."
"I know, but--"
"C.J. Get a cat, don't get a cat, just get a grip."
"You're not very supportive," C.J. called over her shoulder as she walked toward the Briefing Room. "And you know what?"
"You're going to do it?"
"I'm going to do it."
"You're going to do what?" Danny asked, intercepting her.
"I'm making a foray into the world of responsible pet ownership," C.J. announced proudly.
"You have a fish," he pointed out.
"A fish isn't a pet. A fish is desk décor."
He looked horrified. "Do you say that in front of her?"
"Sorry. Look, Gail is a good fish. But I want a pet I can actually, you know, pet--"
"Hair," Danny interrupted gloomily. "Hair all over your clothes."
"--And that can sleep on the end of my bed--"
"It'll throw up in your shoes."
"--And that I can talk to, and hold."
"And steal your food."
"I'll manage. I'm getting a cat, Danny."
"Cats are devious creatures," he warned her.
"Perfect." She grinned. "So am I."
Somehow, Danny's warnings convinced her it was a good idea. After all, she was mature and capable. People her age had children -- hell, she thought wryly, people her age had teenagers. She could handle any trouble a cat would give her.
"So you're not worried about the curse?" Donna asked, when C.J. told her this.
"Should I be?"
"You broke the Bast statue. You incurred divine wrath."
"That was a week ago." C.J. sighed. "She's not over it yet?"
"She's a centuries-old goddess. She probably holds grudges."
"Just my luck. I'll get a demonic cat that will come and suck my breath at night."
"You shouldn't worry," Donna reassured her. "If it doesn't work out, you can give it to my roommate. Josh chased the old one away with the yelling."
"But what if we don't bond?" C.J. pinched the bridge of her nose wearily. "What if I'm a bad owner, Donna? What if I end up with a cat that just hates me?"
"That won't happen. Worst comes to worst, you'll just have to deal with fleas."
"Fleas?" She groaned. "I might be getting in over my head here."
"The cat will love you, C.J. And you'll love the cat."
"You think so?"
"I'm sure of it."
C.J. wasn't certain. The prospect of being responsible for another living being was daunting, and she said so to the woman at the animal shelter.
"I understand," the woman said. 'Lydia' was written on her nametag. "You need to start off with a kitten."
"I'm not sure." C.J. frowned. "Kittens are needy and -- and rambunctious, right?"
"Rambunctious?"
"You know. I'm not sure I'm ready for that."
"Trust me," Lydia said. "You need time to grow with your pet. It's much easier to develop a relationship with an infant than a full-grown cat."
"Well, if you're sure."
"I know what I'm doing. Wait." Lydia left the front desk and disappeared into the back room, then re-emerged. "Here we are."
C.J. nearly dropped the mass of gray and black fur that was deposited into her hands. She lifted the kitten up. It met her quizzical expression with one of its own.
"Hey, you," C.J. said. The cat pointed its ears in her direction. "Does he have a name?"
"She. And no, not yet. Her litter just came in yesterday. I think she likes you."
C.J. set the small cat on the counter and stroked its tail lightly. "Maybe. She doesn't seem too..."
"Rambunctious?" Lydia supplied, smiling.
"Right. She seems nice enough."
"We can give her her shots, and a free flea collar."
"Okay." C.J. studied the kitten for a long moment. It bumped its head softly against her hand. "Okay. I'll take it."
Getting the cat home wasn't much trouble, although paws and whiskers kept appearing over the top of the cardboard box strapped into the passenger seat. Litter-box training went fairly quickly -- they'd done it at the shelter. And while C.J. kept jumping the first few nights when she heard the small creature moving through her bedroom, she seemed to be getting the hang of things. They were both content. There was only one problem.
"I don't know what to name her," C.J. complained, collapsing on the couch in Sam's office.
He grinned. "The naming of cats is a difficult matter--"
"Shut up."
"Call her Grizzly." Sam sat down at his desk. "Call her Lady Jane or Whiskers or Gidget."
She looked at him strangely. "You've done a lot of thinking about this."
"Those are cats I used to have, when I was a kid."
"Let me guess. You named Lady Jane."
"And Gidget," he confessed.
"Those are good, but I don't want my cat to have a namesake." She sighed. "This cat is special. She needs a unique name."
"Fluffy?" Toby suggested from the doorway.
"You're not taking this seriously," she reproached him.
"Was there ever even the remotest possibility that I would?"
"What do you think of Anastasia?"
Sam wrinkled his nose. "It sounds like anesthesia."
"You absolutely cannot name a kitten that," Toby said firmly.
"Why not?"
"The name is bigger and prettier than it is."
"This is important to me," C.J. insisted.
Toby raised his eyebrows. "You're in danger of rapidly becoming one of those scary cat ladies."
"I am not." She smiled. "Toby, come home with me at lunchtime and see the kitten."
He looked at Sam. "I think we've finally lost her."
He held up his hands. "Hey, I like cats. Can I come too?"
"No," C.J. said, as she got to her feet.
"Why not?"
"You wanted to call her Gidget."
Despite his protestations, Toby let C.J. drag him back to her apartment. The kitten dashed to the door when it heard her keys in the lock, going a little too quickly for its own good and winding up in a heap on the rug.
"Hey, baby." C.J. scooped the cat up off the floor. "Alice. Veronica. Smudge. This isn't working. But isn't she sweet?"
"If you say so," Toby said doubtfully.
She set the kitten down. "I think she missed me while I was at work. Maybe I should get another one, so she isn't lonely. Oh, my God, I am becoming a scary cat lady."
"What did I -- hello." The kitten attacked Toby's ankle with delight, pouncing merrily on his shoe.
"She likes you," C.J. observed.
"I think she's trying to kill me." Purring loudly, the kitten hooked its tiny claws into his trousers and tried to climb up. He detached it gingerly and picked it up. "There's a homicidal look in those eyes, you see that?"
"No, she likes you. In fact, I think she likes you more than she likes me." The small beast licked Toby's hand in agreement.
"That's perverse. I'm not a cat person."
"She seems to think otherwise."
"C.J., she doesn't have the brain capacity to think."
"I won't have you talking about -- Casey? No. I won't have you talking about my cat that way. Give her back to me."
"Call the thing Circe," he said unexpectedly, as he handed it off.
"What?"
"Circe."
"Who says you get to pick her name?"
"That's her name, C.J."
C.J. let the kitten leap to the floor, and studied it for a long moment. "Damn, I think you're right."
"Of course I am."
"Of course you are," she agreed. "Circe. I like it. I think she does too."
"She doesn't even know she has a name," Toby argued, but not seriously.
The cat wove its soft body around their ankles. "She likes you even better than she likes me," C.J. murmured.
"I said they were irritating." He chuckled quietly. "I never said they were stupid. Whatever their faults, they have excellent taste."
She tilted her head with a smile. "So do I."
And Circe walked away from them with a dignified air, looking for a patch of afternoon sunlight in which to make herself at home.
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