Scat!

I don’t have a name, but they call me Scat, especially the ones who don’t want a feral cat wandering into their restaurants and houses to lick up their milk. They shout my name until I run off, unlike pet cats who come when their name is called.

I dodged a plate as it flew at me from my latest food stop, Cheer Frye. The dish shattered to pieces beside me. Why can’t the humans just thank me for my amazing pest control skills? I thought.

As I wandered into the alley, I heard a deafening shout and a crash not much different from the greeting often delivered to me when I entered a building. It was coming from the house across the street.

I reached the other end of the road in no time, pleased by my own swiftness and only honked at once. Slipping and sliding between legs and under people’s feet was the next obstacle before finally making it to the correct house of the people in distress. I leapt onto the windowsill and peeked in. What I found was chaos.

A couple was shouting and throwing things at someone or something. I spotted the criminal: a large black rat darted around the room faster than the speed of sound, its beady black eyes glowing an evil red in the light.

I leapt to the floor lightly and caught up with the rodent in no time. I pounced on my meal eagerly, satisfied and oblivious to the fact I was being watched.

When I finally did look up, a woman reached out a hesitant hand and petted me. I backed away, unsure how they would treat me after how they greeted that rat. A man held out a bowl of milk. Gorgeous, creamy white milk. Was he offering me food?

The woman petted me again. “We’ve found our pest control,” she murmured.

The man called me by the name of Alex. A name! And why did I go to him? Because I finally understood why cats came when called. I finally had a home!