Brand new writer, cat story

Hi! I’m very new to writing and new to posting on Reddit, so I have no idea if I am doing this right. I’m just looking for readers or even some constructive feedback on a memoir piece I’ve written about adopting my cat. I’m hoping to really improve this skill as I’m having a lot of fun writing!

I’ll just go look. I think to myself. That’s something to do, at least.

My limbs are viscous as I start the process of extracting myself out of the bed I’ve been in for the better part of the day. Even though I haven’t had a shift the night before, my body still feels as though I worked a long twelve hours last night. Walking to the kitchen has me pausing to catch my breath. Lately, my hiking boots have seen gradually less wear and tear. The newest round of books I had excitedly brought home months ago sit in pristine condition on my bookshelf. Glancing at the clock, I’m not surprised to see that it’s past 3pm. If I don’t get out of the house now, I’ll miss the few hours of sunlight left.

I pull on a pair of pants a minute before walking out the door.

In my car, I pull out of my apartment’s garage and leave the neighborhood I call home. These blocks show a hard exterior, but hold a warm, beating heart when one takes the time to look. I’m soon on the highway and approaching a building lying just off the road. Its roof peeks out above the trees, like a neighbor peering over the fence for a chat. I walk up to the doors and wonder vaguely why I am here.
The Humane Society smells like the inside of a barn has been doused with bleach. A quick look around has me heading for the dog rooms, where a chorus of barking welcomes me. I exhale.

An hour later and a heart lighter, I’m on my way to the exit when the “Cats” sign catches my eye on the other side of the lobby. I surprise myself by wandering over and entering through a heavy door.
“Have you thought about getting a cat?” my therapist’s question echoes in my head.
“Not really. I’m more of a dog person,” I had answered.

In contrast to the other half of the building, this side is relatively quiet save for the footsteps of fellow visitors. Eventually, I find the senior cat hallway, which is a lineup at the front of the building with extra-large, individual rooms. One of the name placards catches my eye.

“TEDDY. 12 YEARS OLD,” it declares. “NO TEETH.”

I enter to meet him, a small, brown tabby whose eyes immediately find mine. As I enter, Teddy is timid but doesn’t hide, and I sit down next to the wall and look out the window. In my periphery, I can see him creeping up to me, courageously approaching his intruder. There is a paw on my leg, then two. I look down at him. He reaches his head up to rub his face on my cheek. I scratch his head and say hello.

The better part of the next hour is spent in his room, playing with him and scratching between his ears. He, in turn, gives me many more little bonks to the face, looking around the room each time afterwards, as if asking me, “What the heck is this place?”

Soon, the Humane Society closes, and I whisper to Teddy it was nice to meet him, and return home. But when I go to bed that night, I can’t sleep. By the time morning comes, my heart is wholly set on adopting the senior cat.

That morning dawns brightly, and I return to the Humane Society shortly after it opens. As I enter, I hear conversation off to the side between an employee and a couple seated in some chairs. I can’t hear much, but I catch the name “Teddy” floating around. My stomach drops. These desks are for people going through formalities surrounding the adoption process. It seems Teddy is spoken for.

“Excuse me,” I say to a woman behind the main reception desk, and am momentarily surprised by my own voice, realizing that I haven’t spoken to another human in days. I continue, trying to keep my voice casual. “Do you know, is that couple adopting Teddy?”

“They’re interested, and they have first say on him. But they haven’t made a final decision, so if you’d like, you should put your name in so you’re next in line.”

I put my name down, and go to see Teddy, whose small face feels already familiar.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” I tell him just between the two of us. “But I want you to know how brave you are.”

I bide my time back in the lobby. The first couple is still in the building, discussing their decision at length.

The woman I had spoken with approaches to ask if I would like to meet any of the many other cats they have in house at the moment. That would be smart, I think.

“No, thank you,” is what comes out of my mouth. “I’ll wait.”

Her expression softens as she drops her practiced demeanor.

“You know, my years of experience have taught me that if you’re meant to end up with a cat, things will work out. The right cat has a way of finding their way to you.” She gives me a small smile. “Stay here, I’ll go get details on what they’re thinking.”

An hour and a half of waiting later, and I’m walking out the doors with a cardboard cat carrier and Teddy within. The entire ride home, my seatbelt of an arm doesn’t leave the passenger seat.

Teddy parks himself under my bed. It takes a few hours, but the smell of food is too much to resist, and he eventually creeps out to eat the Friskies can that is a Trojan horse for his medications.

The rest of Teddy’s night is spent slowly searching the apartment for any sign of danger, sniffing every corner, and half sleeping while standing up.

The next couple weeks pass with the awkwardness of learning to share a home with a new roommate.

“He peed in my socks, Mom” I say on the phone one afternoon. “And he won’t stop jumping on my face when I’m trying to go to sleep. The vet said it was a behavioral issue.”

“It will just take time. He’s still adjusting,” replies my mom, a smile in her voice.

She proves to be right, in time. More weeks pass, and home life settles.

I take a shower after a particularly long and difficult night shift. I turn off the water and open the shower curtain to see Teddy sitting in front of me on the bathmat, back to me, facing the open bathroom door. His tail wraps around his legs in a tight circle. With eyes locked on the doorframe, his ears point up, forward, alert. At the sound of the curtain, Teddy looks back at me and gives a soft meow.

That morning on my way to bed, I pull a book off my shelf, blow dust from the cover, and begin to read as Teddy curls into my legs.

My guardian of the darkness falls asleep.