Gabi Rome

I hate dogs.

You can't get a dog.

I don't care what letter you get from the state.

If you get a dog, I'll poison it.

But I'm not heartless.

You can have a cat.

Conveniently, his niece had just found some kittens behind the carport, and if I go to the sixth floor, I can have my pick of the litter.

A baby kitten is probably the animal least capable of protecting me.

And conventional wisdom tells you, you cannot train a cat.

But between my sleep deprivation and my desperation, I figure,

Maybe I can defy the odds.

Maybe I can train this cat to hear a knock and then hit a button that makes the sound of a dog bark, or train it to launch itself at the heads of intruders.

The orphaned, neonatal 14-ounce cat I take home that day

needs to be fed via syringe every two to four hours.

Which is fine, because I'm not sleeping anyways.

This kitten and I, I decide we're gonna go to work.

I knock, and then I feed her.

And as she gets older, I knock and then I throw a treat at the door.

Weirdly, it's working, like she's responding to the knocks.

And one day, after a few hours of training, I'm standing in my kitchen making some waffles in the toaster and just watching the freezer burn melt off under the hot orange coils, daydreaming about when I used to feel safe enough to have pizza delivered, and how at my old apartment there was this great pizza place, this mom-and-pop wood-fired place that would get the cheese to crust.