Nili, can you share with us your favorite story about your cat?
Oh man, Anon. I have many favourite stories about Raj (like the time this happened, or the time she slapped one of my other cats because they had rolled in poop and she was offended by the smell, or the time(s) she crawls into my bed in the middle of the night to push my head off my pillow so she can commandeer it and sleep there instead, like the asshole queen she is) but this is one of the most memorable ones, simply because of how legitimately ridiculous it was:
One time, a few years ago, it was 3am on a warm summer night and Raj still hadn’t come home yet. She’s an outdoor cat and generally likes being out during the night, so it’s not entirely unusual, but she’d been out all day too, and she must have been hungry by then. So I went outside and yelled for her. My cat is cute and loves me and will generally come when I call, assuming she’s within hearing distance and also assuming she feels liking coming home, because cats don’t do anything they don’t want to, ok. But Raj will generally come when I call.
Anyway, I call. No response. Call again. No answer, no sounds of majestic felines stalking their way toward me in the darkness like a jaguar waiting to pounce, no offended and protesting meows like what the hell is taking you so long to feed me minion, the front door isn’t even open, what are you doing with your life, no nothing.
I call one last time, a little louder, expecting nothing, because she must still be out, partying or going to raves or whatever cats do during the night when they are too cool to be home. I turn to go back inside, because clearly, she is not ready to come home.
Oh, she knows it, all right. That’s how she ended up against the cool obsidian walls of the Hades cabin, it’s lone long, lean resident pressed into her back, instead of down at the beach with the campers to watch the fireworks. That’s why Nico’s callused hands are on her bare hips and his mouth is tracing patterns on the back of her neck, and why she’s trying not to moan even though there’s not a single kid around to overhear.
Blaine slams the door closed, a brilliant smile on his face in spite of the muddy substance covering his entire left side.
“What the Hell happened to you?” Kurt exclaims, rushing to help Blaine out of his soaked clothes before he can get sick.
“I’m a true New Yorker now,” Blaine replies, his smile wavering just a little when he realizes that the thing managed to get through his jacket and stained his sleeve. “I got drenched by a cab and I insulted him and he insulted me back and I hit the roof of his car to get him to stop and apologize and he did,” he adds in one breath.
Kurt stops his task of unbuttoning Blaine’s shirt to look at him with a smirk. “Good for you, channeling your inner Nightbird without the suit,” he says, “but that doesn’t make you a true New Yorker.”
“And what, pray tell, would make me a true New Yorker then?” Blaine retorts, taking one look at his shirt before throwing it in the bag for the laundromat.