Copyright 2012, Theresa Weir

Max had been a cat as long as he could remember, but he was pretty sure he’d been a rock star in one of his previous lives. He just had that kind of cool about him. Right now he was sitting in the middle of the floor in Saint Paul, Minnesota, feeling hostile while staring at the strange man in his mistress’s bed.

“Does your cat have a name?” the man asked. The sheet was draped across the guy’s hips, and it hurt Max’s eyes to look at so much naked flesh and hairy chest.

“Maxwell,” Max’s mistress shouted from the bathroom. Her name was Melody and she took good care of Max. He didn’t know who her dealer was, but she got him some primo stuff. Organic, no stems, and a high that kept him bouncing off the walls for a good full hour.

But Max was fed up with the strange men she kept bringing home, and they were definitely putting a damper on his relationship with Melody.

The guy held out his hand. “Here, kitty-kitty.” He smelled like sweat, cigarettes, and old beer. And Melody. Max hated that he also smelled like Melody. Max sniffed around and found a pile of clothes that gave off the same odor as the man in the bed. Without digging or circling, he squatted over the fabric. Keeping his gaze locked on the stranger, Max let go with a stream of urine. It just seemed the thing to do.

The man shouted, and Melody came running from the bathroom, toothbrush in her hand. “Max!”

Max jumped off the pile of clothes, pleased to see a wet spot on both pants and shirt.

“Goddamn cat!” The guy dove from the bed. Max flicked his tail and zoomed out of the room, skidding as he took a corner, giving a quick jump when he hit the wall, corrected, then a straight shot through the living room and kitchen, to the basement where he’d be safe. But voices carried through the floor vents.