The Cat Distribution System

Pack Rule #29: Any animal rescued by the Alpha becomes everyone else’s responsibility within twenty-four hours.

The kitten did not belong to me.

This was an important fact.

A temporary fact, perhaps.

But still a fact.

I repeated it silently as I walked back toward the pack house with the kitten tucked against my chest.

He had stopped trembling.

That was good.

He had also hooked one tiny paw into the collar of my shirt and refused to let go.

That was less good.

Rowan walked beside me, smiling in a way I did not trust.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I smile all the time.”

“No. You grin all the time. Usually right before someone needs bandages.”

“That feels unfair.”

“You jumped out of a tree.”

“To save you.”

“You keep saying that like it erases the part where you created the emergency.”

“It should at least improve the final report.”

“It did not.”

Behind us, Elder Martha followed at a leisurely pace with the picnic basket over one arm. The patrol wolves carried the damaged ladder between them.

The goat walked beside the ladder.

Every few steps, one of the wolves glared at him.

The goat appeared unmoved by public opinion.

“Where are we taking him?” Rowan asked.

“The infirmary.”

“The kitten or the goat?”

I looked at him.

“Why would I take the goat to the infirmary?”

Rowan glanced backward.

“He ate rope.”

“He ate a ladder.”

“That too.”

“He appears perfectly healthy.”

As though summoned by the accusation, the goat stopped walking, sneezed, and resumed chewing a loose thread from one patrol wolf’s sleeve.

The wolf sighed.

“I liked this shirt.”

“Keep moving,” I said.

Inside the pack house, news of the rescue had traveled faster than we had.

The moment we entered the main hall, every young wolf in the building appeared from nowhere.

They gathered around me in a loose circle, whispering loudly and pointing at the bundle beneath my chin.

“It’s so tiny.”

“Is it hurt?”

“Can I hold it?”

“Does it have a name?”

“Can it stay in my room?”

“No,” I said.

All five questions had been directed at me.

“No to which one?” a little girl asked.

“The last one.”

Her face brightened.

“So I can hold him?”

“No.”

Her face fell.

Rowan crouched beside her.

“He’s scared right now.”

The girl nodded solemnly.

“We have to be quiet.”

Every child in the hall immediately began whispering even louder.

I looked at Rowan.

He shrugged.

“They’re trying.”

Elder Martha stepped forward and clapped her hands once.

“All right. Give Mason room.”

The children shuffled backward.

Not far.

But enough that I could move.

“Kitchen,” she said.

“I said infirmary.”

“The kitten is hungry.”

“How do you know?”

She gave me a look.

“I’ve raised six children, twelve grandpups, and half this pack.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It is the only one you’re getting.”

She turned toward the kitchen.

Everyone followed.

Apparently, I no longer had command of the situation.

The kitten remained pressed against me as we entered the warm, crowded kitchen.

Morning bread cooled along the counter.

A pot of stew simmered over the hearth.

Someone had abandoned a basket of folded linens on the table.

The goat spotted it immediately.

“No,” I said.

He continued toward the basket.

“Absolutely not.”

One of the patrol wolves intercepted him.

The goat changed direction and headed for a bowl of apples instead.

“Rowan.”

“Yes?”

“Supervise your goat.”

“Our goat.”

“Your goat.”

“He lives here.”

“So do mice. We don’t assign them voting rights.”

Rowan lifted the goat away from the apples.

The goat protested and tried to climb him.

A younger wolf giggled.

“Alpha Rowan has two babies now.”

“I do not,” Rowan said.

I looked down at the kitten.

Rowan looked down at the goat in his arms.

Elder Martha smiled.

“No,” she said. “Mason has the baby.”

The room went silent.

I stared at her.

“No.”

The kitten purred against my throat.

Rowan’s grin returned.

“No,” I repeated.

One of the children whispered, “He likes you.”

“He’s frightened.”

“He’s purring.”

“That can also mean stress.”

Elder Martha placed a shallow saucer of warm goat’s milk on the table.

I looked at the goat.

Then at the milk.

Then at her.

“You planned that quickly.”

“I adapt.”

“Dangerous quality around Rowan.”

“I heard that,” Rowan said.

Again, it was intended for him.

I sat in one of the chairs and carefully tried to lower the kitten toward the saucer.

He tightened every claw in my shirt.

I stopped.

“That’s unnecessary.”

The kitten meowed.

Rowan leaned against the table.

“Maybe he wants you to feed him.”

“With what hand?”

“The other one.”

“My other hand is keeping him from climbing into my hair.”

Rowan considered this.

“You could let him.”

“No.”

Elder Martha dipped the tip of her finger into the warm milk and held it beneath the kitten’s nose.

He sniffed.

Then slowly licked the drop away.

“There,” she said. “Now you.”

I stared at her.

“You want me to feed him milk from my finger.”

“He trusts you.”

“He met me twenty minutes ago.”

“Sometimes that’s enough.”

Something in her voice softened the room.

The children stopped whispering.

Even Rowan’s grin faded into something gentler.

I looked at the kitten.

His eyes were still too wide.

His ribs were faint beneath his fur.

He had survived the tree, the shouting, and Rowan’s rescue plan.

The least I could do was help him eat.

I dipped one finger into the milk.

The kitten sniffed it.

Then licked.

Again.

And again.

His little body relaxed against me.

The children collectively sighed.

I chose to ignore that.

“This is temporary,” I said.

“Of course,” Elder Martha replied.

Rowan nodded with suspicious enthusiasm.

“Absolutely temporary.”

The kitten finished eating and immediately climbed higher onto my shoulder.

I caught him before he slipped.

He tucked his face beneath my jaw.

Then, with no concern whatsoever for my authority, my schedule, or my shirt, he fell asleep.

Rowan folded his arms.

“Well.”

“No.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was going to say he looks comfortable.”

“No.”

“He chose you.”

“Animals do not assign themselves owners.”

The goat bleated from Rowan’s arms.

I pointed at him.

“That one assigned himself to the entire pack yesterday.”

“Exactly,” Rowan said. “There’s a system.”

“There is no system.”

Elder Martha poured herself tea.

“There is absolutely a system.”

I looked around the kitchen.

Every person was trying not to smile.

Every child was failing.

The kitten gave one tiny snore.

I sighed.

“Someone find a box.”

Rowan’s expression lit up.

“For your office?”

“For the infirmary.”

“Of course.”

“And a blanket.”

“I’ll get one.”

“An old blanket.”

He paused.

“How old?”

“One the goat has already ruined.”

“That narrows it down.”

He hurried out of the kitchen.

I watched him go.

The kitten slept on my shoulder.

Elder Martha sat beside me and quietly pushed a cup of fresh coffee across the table.

I looked at it.

Then at her.

“You’re bribing me.”

“I’m supporting you.”

“With coffee.”

“It’s your preferred form of support.”

I took the cup.

The warmth settled into my palm.

For a few peaceful moments, the kitchen quieted.

The children watched the sleeping kitten.

The stew simmered.

The goat stopped fighting Rowan’s patrol wolf and began chewing the edge of a wooden spoon instead.

I should have been annoyed.

I was annoyed.

Mostly.

But the kitten’s tiny heartbeat pressed steadily against my chest.

And when I looked down, one small paw rested over the top button of my shirt as though holding on.

“This is temporary,” I whispered.

Elder Martha smiled into her tea.

“Yes, dear.”

Rowan returned carrying three blankets, a basket, a pillow, and a wooden sign.

I stared at the sign.

It read:

MASON’S CAT

“No.”

Rowan looked offended.

“I made it myself.”

“You had time to make a sign?”

“I work quickly under pressure.”

“You wrote it in charcoal.”

“It’s rustic.”

I reached for the sign.

Rowan pulled it out of reach.

The kitten stirred.

I froze.

Everyone froze.

He settled again without waking.

Rowan lowered his voice.

“We can discuss the sign later.”

“There will be no discussion.”

“Good. Then it’s decided.”

I glared at him.

He smiled.

And the kitten, apparently satisfied with the outcome, began to purr again.

That was how I learned the Cat Distribution System did not require my consent.