the number.
I called as soon as I exited the USCLA medical building, walking on concrete paths that wound around the brick buildings and green grassy landscapes.
“Patsy’s Pet Store and Exotic Creatures Emporium. My name’s Patsy. How can I help you?”
“Hey, Patsy,” I said. “I saw your Kitten Adoption sign in the window about two weeks ago. There was a longhaired, black kitten that was up for adoption. I’m sure he’s already found a great home. But I had to call and check on him. Just in case.”
“Oh. You’re talking about Napoleon,” she said.
“Huh?”
“The bossy, black, long-haired, male fuzzball who thinks he’s the ruler of an empire?”
“That totally sounds like him.” I smiled. “He’s obviously been taken.”
“No,” Patsy said. “You do know that black and tuxedo cats have a tougher time being adopted than other kitties?”
“No.” I shook my head. “Why?”
“Old-fashioned superstitions… Juan!” Patsy hollered. “Do not let Mr. Tweets out of his cage! He acts all nice and sweet, but he’ll fly off on a moment’s notice and try to attack the lovebirds. Keep his cage door shut!”
“Yikes,” I said. “Sounds like you’ve got a lot going on. Does that mean Napoleon’s still at your store?”
“Sorry for the bird drama,” Patsy said. “In regards to the kitten you’re calling about? No one wanted Napoleon. Store policy. We sent him to West L.A. Animal Shelter a couple of days ago.”
“But, but….” my palms broke into a sweat. “Is that a kill shelter?”
“Sorry, yes.” She screamed, “Juan! Mr. Tweets just attacked my hair! You let him out—”
I hung up the phone and hit one number.
“Bonita! What’s up? Need a ride? I’ve got plans with the guys this afternoon. I promised. I can’t break it. I can do sometime tomorrow afternoon. Or the day after? Where do you want to go? What do you want to do? More research?”
My heart sunk. For some reason I thought Alejandro and I were cool, on the same page. Like—he’d always be there for me. Because, so far he had. But no one can always be there for someone else. That’s a fairytale. And my life definitely wasn’t a fairytale. “Can’t wait. It’s urgent,” I said.
“How urgent?” he asked.
“Walking out my door and headed to the bus, urgent,” I grabbed my purse, keys, strode out my door and slammed it shut.
“Shit. I—” Alex said.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’ll handle it.”
“I’ll call you—”
“Thanks.” I hung up. Things needed to get done. Things that couldn’t wait for one guy, or one hospital. One research study. One alternative healer.
Sometimes you couldn’t wait, because the only way things would get done? Would be if you did them yourself.
* * *
I was back on the Big Blue Bus that headed toward Venice. I’d researched where the West L.A. Shelter was—Pico Avenue, approximately where Ocean Park Boulevard dead-ended a few blocks from it. I checked my phone. Four thirty p.m. This time I had to get there before closing time—5 p.m. Because this time the price for punctuality wasn’t a charge on a credit card. This time the stakes were life or death.
My phone buzzed and I glanced down. It was Alex and I picked up. “What?”
“I’m in my Jeep. I’m driving. I’ll pick you up. Where are we going?”
“Where am I going? ”
“Okay. Where are you going?”
“West L.A. Animal Shelter.”
“Why?” he asked.
“I can’t really talk right now.” I hesitated, my index finger poised over the disconnect button.
“Don’t hang up! I know where it is. I’m like a mile from there.”
“I’ve got to get there before five p.m. Or they’ll kill my cat.”
“I didn’t know you had a cat?”
“I didn’t, either.”
“What’s it look like?” Alex asked.
“He’s black, fuzzy, round, about ten weeks old. His name is Napoleon. He thinks he’s the king of the universe.”
“I like him already, Bonita. Must drive
I called as soon as I exited the USCLA medical building, walking on concrete paths that wound around the brick buildings and green grassy landscapes.
“Patsy’s Pet Store and Exotic Creatures Emporium. My name’s Patsy. How can I help you?”
“Hey, Patsy,” I said. “I saw your Kitten Adoption sign in the window about two weeks ago. There was a longhaired, black kitten that was up for adoption. I’m sure he’s already found a great home. But I had to call and check on him. Just in case.”
“Oh. You’re talking about Napoleon,” she said.
“Huh?”
“The bossy, black, long-haired, male fuzzball who thinks he’s the ruler of an empire?”
“That totally sounds like him.” I smiled. “He’s obviously been taken.”
“No,” Patsy said. “You do know that black and tuxedo cats have a tougher time being adopted than other kitties?”
“No.” I shook my head. “Why?”
“Old-fashioned superstitions… Juan!” Patsy hollered. “Do not let Mr. Tweets out of his cage! He acts all nice and sweet, but he’ll fly off on a moment’s notice and try to attack the lovebirds. Keep his cage door shut!”
“Yikes,” I said. “Sounds like you’ve got a lot going on. Does that mean Napoleon’s still at your store?”
“Sorry for the bird drama,” Patsy said. “In regards to the kitten you’re calling about? No one wanted Napoleon. Store policy. We sent him to West L.A. Animal Shelter a couple of days ago.”
“But, but….” my palms broke into a sweat. “Is that a kill shelter?”
“Sorry, yes.” She screamed, “Juan! Mr. Tweets just attacked my hair! You let him out—”
I hung up the phone and hit one number.
“Bonita! What’s up? Need a ride? I’ve got plans with the guys this afternoon. I promised. I can’t break it. I can do sometime tomorrow afternoon. Or the day after? Where do you want to go? What do you want to do? More research?”
My heart sunk. For some reason I thought Alejandro and I were cool, on the same page. Like—he’d always be there for me. Because, so far he had. But no one can always be there for someone else. That’s a fairytale. And my life definitely wasn’t a fairytale. “Can’t wait. It’s urgent,” I said.
“How urgent?” he asked.
“Walking out my door and headed to the bus, urgent,” I grabbed my purse, keys, strode out my door and slammed it shut.
“Shit. I—” Alex said.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’ll handle it.”
“I’ll call you—”
“Thanks.” I hung up. Things needed to get done. Things that couldn’t wait for one guy, or one hospital. One research study. One alternative healer.
Sometimes you couldn’t wait, because the only way things would get done? Would be if you did them yourself.
* * *
I was back on the Big Blue Bus that headed toward Venice. I’d researched where the West L.A. Shelter was—Pico Avenue, approximately where Ocean Park Boulevard dead-ended a few blocks from it. I checked my phone. Four thirty p.m. This time I had to get there before closing time—5 p.m. Because this time the price for punctuality wasn’t a charge on a credit card. This time the stakes were life or death.
My phone buzzed and I glanced down. It was Alex and I picked up. “What?”
“I’m in my Jeep. I’m driving. I’ll pick you up. Where are we going?”
“Where am I going? ”
“Okay. Where are you going?”
“West L.A. Animal Shelter.”
“Why?” he asked.
“I can’t really talk right now.” I hesitated, my index finger poised over the disconnect button.
“Don’t hang up! I know where it is. I’m like a mile from there.”
“I’ve got to get there before five p.m. Or they’ll kill my cat.”
“I didn’t know you had a cat?”
“I didn’t, either.”
“What’s it look like?” Alex asked.
“He’s black, fuzzy, round, about ten weeks old. His name is Napoleon. He thinks he’s the king of the universe.”
“I like him already, Bonita. Must drive
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