Shane MacQuillen was not supposed to be here.

He usually volunteered from 4 to 6 p.m., on Tuesdays and Thursdays respectively.  Though, it was closer to 4:15 to 6:15, on account of the fact that he was always, and I mean _always_, tardy.  Even so, most of the staff looked forward to working with him as far as I could tell.  They seemed to like how he could simultaneously be quiet and obedient, meaning able to follow specific instruction and protocol, but also jovial and independent.  I’ll admit here that I, too, admired these contradictory qualities of his.  They made him rather amusing to observe.

Yes, I did love watching Shane work, didn’t I?  It was the rhythmic way he cleaned.  Or perhaps I was simply bored.  It doesn’t matter really.  In time, I began to enjoy listening to him as well.  Eavesdropping, as one may call it, on his lighthearted conversations with the staff became one of my favorite hobbies.  So it came to be that I learned everything about him, down to the color of his house—blue—and the age of his younger sister—sixteen.  All the while, Shane himself knew next to nothing of me but my name.  I liked that very much.

What can I say?  I’m a private individual.

Well.  I’ve gone on a bit of a tangent then, now haven’t I?  The fact of the matter is, I loved watching Shane, and so I established mental notes of what time and day he volunteered at the shelter.  2:00 on a Wednesday was not one of them.  He should not have been here.  But he was.  And that, as one might imagine, led me to wonder what was going on.  

He greeted me as he walked in.

“Hey there, Mr. Hobbes,” he said.  This wasn’t an odd action for him, but I was still thrown off by his unexpected arrival.  I cocked my head, forming a question, but Shane simply kneeled down, poked his fingers through the wire of my cage, and stroked my ears.  It felt so refreshing I almost forgot about my preoccupation with his presence here on a Wednesday at 2:00.  I closed my eyes and purred.

Natasha, the shelter attendant, walked over and grinned at him.  “I know I’ve said this before, but you’re great with animals, Shane.  Especially cats.”  I watched Shane get up and dust himself off.

“Ah, well, Hobbes is perfect.  Honestly, I can’t wait to take him home.”  Take me home?  Shane?  This came as a surprise.  I had witnessed many of my fellow cats being taken away by humans—“adoption”, Natasha called it—and I assumed it was good.  But I’d never acquired any of the details of what this adoption process entailed.  Besides, it only seemed to happen to friendly-faced, pudgy kittens, so naturally I assumed it would never happen to me.

I never minded.  Really, I didn’t.  But going home with Shane sounded like an idea I could get on board with.  I loved watching Shane MacQuillen.  And he was always so kind to me.  I pictured him carrying me into his little blue house and making it mine, too.  Yes, that sounded quite nice, it did.  

I let out a happy chirp, which made both Natasha and Shane laugh. 

“Looks like he can’t wait either,” Natasha said.