Cat Lady

In a rapidly gentrifying London suburban apartment by the park, where the people are cold and the weather is colder, I overhear a nascent rumor in the making, about myself from the overfamiliar voices, and for a long second, I wish my life was as interesting as my thriving geriatric grapevine conjures it to be and believes in possibilities over probabilities. I move on, wondering why those so close to death remain so inquisitive about the lives of others who are busy living, and I tell my friends that if I ever become that bitter old cat lady, stop me.

From Guest Contributor Dr. Vaishnavi Pusapati

Cat Number Four

Shelly sighed as she looked at the stray. Something in her mind shouted "Run away," but it was too late. The kitten would be coming with her.

On the cab ride home, as she stroked the plush fur, Shelly recalled the dreams she had as a child. A successful career in business. A handsome husband. Two obedient children. Those dreams were now gone, replaced by this adorable fur ball in her lap.

She entered her home and set the kitten on the floor. There was no turning back. This was cat number four. Shelly was officially a crazy cat lady.