Checked temperature.
Bloodwork.
Paws.
Hydration.
“Respiratory infection.”
She said.
“Moderate dehydration.”
“He’s lost almost two pounds.”
“His paws are damaged.”
“Any frostbite?”
“Mild tissue injury.”
“Nothing that looks irreversible.”
Eliza exhaled.
“Will he survive?”
“Yes.”
Dr. Callahan replied.
“If no complication develops.”
Eliza sat down.
Her legs had begun shaking.
The vet looked at Louie.
“How far?”
“Eight miles.”
“In December?”
“Yes.”
Dr. Callahan shook her head.
“I have seen cats return from remarkable distances.”
“But three escapes.”
“Two different homes.”
“Always back to you.”
She looked toward Eliza.
“I don’t say this medically.”
“I say it as somebody who has worked with cats thirty years.”
“You may need to reconsider what you think his home is.”
Eliza looked down.
“I foster.”
“I know.”
“I don’t keep them.”
“Why?”
“Because then I can help more.”
Dr. Callahan nodded.
“That’s a good reason.”
“But is it still the reason?”
Eliza looked up.
“What does that mean?”
“Sometimes rules begin as solutions.”
The vet said.
“Then circumstances change.”
“And we keep obeying the rule because breaking it feels like failure.”
Eliza looked at Louie sleeping beneath a towel.
“What if keeping him means one fewer foster?”
“It will.”
“What if he hates other cats?”
“He hasn’t so far.”
“What if he becomes territorial?”
“You manage it.”
“What if fostering stops working?”
“Then you help differently.”
Eliza laughed weakly.
“You make it sound simple.”
“It isn’t.”
Dr. Callahan replied.
“But neither is an eight-mile December commute every time you adopt him out.”
That made Eliza laugh properly.
Then cry again.
She called Della from the clinic parking lot.
“He’s alive.”
“What?”
Della shouted.
“Where?”
“With me.”
Silence.
Then Della made a sound somewhere between crying and laughing.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“He came back?”
“Porch.”
“Same place?”
“Same welcome mat.”
Della started crying.
Eliza waited.
Finally Della asked:
“What are we doing?”
“We?”
“Yes.”
“Because I am not processing a fourth adoption application for that lunatic cat.”
Eliza looked through the windshield.
Louie slept inside his carrier.
Bandages around his paws.
His breathing was quiet.
“I don’t want another family.”
She said.
Della did not speak.
Eliza continued.
“I kept thinking I was the bridge.”
“That my job was to get him from wherever he was before to wherever he belonged next.”
Her voice broke.
“But he keeps coming back.”
“I think he already decided where next is.”
Della sniffed.
“Took you long enough.”
Eliza laughed through tears.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I have a problem.”
“What?”
“If I adopt him, I have less foster space.”
“True.”
“I’ve always said keeping fosters reduces how many animals I can save.”
“Also true.”
“I would be breaking the rule.”
Della became quiet.
Then said:
“Eliza.”
“Yes?”
“You have fostered forty-seven cats.”
“I know.”
“You’ve spent six years giving your house, time, money, sleep, and heart away.”