Cat on a Tuesday

The day I had in mind fell on a Tuesday. I noticed that only after checking the calendar again the night before, when the apartment had grown quiet and the traffic outside had thinned to the occasional car moving through the intersection. 

Tuesday seemed acceptable once I realized it. Nothing really attaches itself to Tuesdays. If anyone ever had reason to look back at that date later, it would probably blend in with the others.

That evening I sat at the small kitchen table and wrote four letters. The table leans slightly to one side, something I had been meaning to fix since I moved in. I used to wedge a folded receipt under the short leg to steady it, but the receipt disappeared months ago and the table has been leaning ever since. Every time I leaned forward to write, the surface shifted just a little. 

One letter went to my sister. Another to Daniel. A third was addressed to the landlord explaining a few practical things about the apartment, like where the spare key was kept or that the rent had already been paid through the end of the month. 

The fourth wasn’t really a letter, but more of a list, now that I think about it. Passwords, account numbers, small instructions about the dull administrative pieces people leave behind without meaning to. 

Of course, being the adult that I am, I printed a will as well. The template I found online was longer than necessary, full of language that didn’t really apply. After trimming it down, the entire document fit onto half a page. Two short paragraphs and a signature line. 

After that I cleaned the apartment, though not in any impressive way. I wiped the kitchen counter with a damp paper towel and washed the mug that had been sitting in the sink since morning. 

The mug has a faded blue stripe around the rim and used to belong to a set of four, but the others broke over the years. I can’t really remember exactly when, sorry. The trash bag in the corner was nearly full, so I tied it up and carried it downstairs. The hallway smelled faintly of someone cooking, garlic, maybe onions. One of the neighbors tends to cook late, and the smell drifts through the building, much to the dismay of those who wanted to sleep and to the delight of those who wanted to eat breakfast.

When I came back upstairs, I stood in the middle of the kitchen for a moment looking around. The refrigerator hummed as what most refrigerators do,  the overhead light buzzed with that faint electrical noise old fixtures always make. On an ordinary night before Tuesday, nothing had changed about the room, and yet it felt slightly unfamiliar, the way places sometimes do when you look at them too much or a little too long. 

A small thought passed through my mind while I stood there. At least nobody would have to deal with a mess. Don’t get me wrong; it wasn’t meant to sound bleak. It felt more like a practical observation, the sort you make while tidying a room before leaving.

The rest of the evening moved along without much issue. I had expected something else, panic perhaps, or doubt arriving late enough to complicate everything again, but nothing like that happened. Instead, there was a steady, almost administrative feeling about the whole thing. 

Morning arrived sooner than I expected. I woke before the alarm and played the “let’s stare at the ceiling for a while” game. A thin crack runs across the plaster above the bed. I’ve looked at that crack hundreds of times. If you stare at it long enough it begins to resemble a crooked river on a map. 

What struck me that morning was how quiet my head felt. For weeks before that, my thoughts had been loud, circling the same arguments again and again, replaying old conversations from slightly different angles as if a better version might appear, but that morning, on a Tuesday, there was none of it.

I made coffee, my favorite morning routine for the last 36 years, and stood by the window while it cooled. Outside, the street looked exactly the way it always does in the morning. A delivery van parked halfway onto the curb. Someone walking a dog that stopped every few steps to inspect the pavement with great seriousness. A cyclist rolled past with one earbud in and the other hanging loose. Ordinary, everyday things I just now find beautiful.

After a while I finished the coffee, picked up my coat, and left the apartment. There was a cat sitting on the second step. Thin grey fur, a little rough around the edges, with one ear bent sideways as if it had healed badly after a fight. I had seen it before wandering near the dumpsters behind the building. It looked up when the door opened, then watched me step over it and continue down the stairs.

For a few seconds there was only the sound of my shoes on the concrete steps. Then I heard claws tapping lightly behind me. The cat from earlier kept a small distance as we walked along the sidewalk, far enough that it didn’t feel like it belonged to me; like we had simply ended up sharing the same direction for a while.

Two blocks away there’s a small convenience store. The sign above the door flickers sometimes, especially in the mornings, though nobody seems in a hurry to replace it. Inside, the air smells faintly of freshly ground coffee and cleaning solution. It was a bit chilly this morning, so I bought a cup of coffee (yes, my second one just before lunch, don’t judge me) and stepped back outside. The cat was sitting near the entrance, waiting.

I stood there for a moment holding my second cup of palpitation and warmth, looking down at it. Then I thought to myself “maybe it’s hungry.” I went back in and bought a can of tuna. There wasn’t any deeper meaning behind that decision. If I were a cat and was hungry on a cold Tuesday morning, I’d try to follow a random stranger on the off chance that they’d feed me a can of something, too.

Behind the building there’s a narrow strip of dirt beside a drainpipe where grass was once planted but never really survived. Tragic, really, but a few stubborn weeds manage to grow there anyway. I opened the can and set it on the ground. 

The cat approached carefully and began eating. It wasn’t frantic about it. A few bites at a time, pausing occasionally to lift its head and glance at me before continuing.

Watching it slowed the moment down in a strange way, so I sat on the ground nearby. Cars passed along the street. A bus rudely groaned through the intersection. Somewhere down the alley a metal gate slammed shut. The city kept moving with its usual indifference while I sat there behind my building watching a stray cat eat tuna.

The cat finished eating and stepped closer, settling beside my shoe without actually touching it. We stayed like that for quite some time. The coffee in my hand grew cold before I noticed. The quiet in my head shifted slightly, though I couldn’t have explained how.

Eventually the cat stood and wandered toward the alley. Halfway down it stopped and looked back. I can’t say exactly why I followed it, but I did. 

The alley opens into a small courtyard behind an abandoned shop. A broken chair leans against one wall. A rusted bicycle frame rests near the fence. Someone once painted the brick a pale yellow, but most of the color has faded to time.

The cat crossed the courtyard and sat in the middle of it. A loose board in the fence let me through, so I climbed over and sat down as well. Time passed and my phone died at some point; I only noticed when I tried to check the time and the screen stayed black. The sun moved slowly across the brick wall.

Eventually the cat slipped through another gap in the fence and disappeared without any ceremony. Maybe it got bored. Maybe it got hungry again and didn’t think I’d buy it food a second time. Whatever it was, the cat’s gone now.

Later that afternoon I returned upstairs. The letters were still on the table where I’d left them. I stood there looking at them for a while before folding each one carefully and placing them in a drawer with my passport.

They’re still there.

The next morning when I opened the door, the day after Tuesday, my supposed “last day,” the cat was sitting on the second step again in the same place as before. 

That was three weeks ago. Since then I’ve made a habit of stopping by the store most mornings to buy a can of tuna. I sit behind the building for a while. Sometimes the cat appears and sometimes it doesn’t. When it does show up, it eats quietly and occasionally lifts its head to check whether I’m still sitting there.

Nothing of note has happened since. I wish I could tell you the cat saved my life, but that’s not how the universe works. We’re all just a bunch of coincidences happening to each other all at once, tiny accidents that somehow get misinterpreted as fate. 

The cat just happened to arrive at a very inconvenient moment, and somehow that was enough to interrupt the schedule.

This section provides an overview of the blog, showcasing a variety of articles, insights, and resources to inform and inspire readers.