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Ilya’s cheerful on the way home from the rink because Troy joined practice today in a non-contact jersey, after being day-to-day for a couple of games with a wrist injury.
“Soon, no more Dillon fucking up my passes,” Ilya says as Shane turns off the main road into their neighbourhood. “Is painful. I forgot how much.”
“Mmm,” Shane says. Ilya’s yapping just to yap; with Troy out, the current lineup is the most balanced option for the top six, given Shane’s right winger is a talented but raw rookie.
“And when he does get the puck, he never shoots. The more ice time, the less shots.”
“He’s always going to defer to you and Bood on your line,” Shane points out. “You could always babysit Benny instead. Cover whatever junior hockey move he pulls once per night.”
“He owes you dinner for that backcheck against Edmonton,” Ilya says, rooting around in the centre console. “You could be a speed skater if hockey didn’t work out—Ah. I think we forgot the zapper.”
They own two gate openers. They own considerably more than two cars. This situation is inevitable until they get around to ordering extras. Shane pulls up at their gate and Ilya hops out to open it with the keypad. Shane parks by the house and gets both their backpacks from the rear seat, slinging one over each shoulder. Ilya comes up the drive at a jog, as if walking is too slow to get back to Shane. It’s not cold enough to need to rush inside.
“This afternoon’s free, yes?” Ilya says as he comes up. “I was thinking—Shane, look!”
Shane looks where Ilya’s pointing. There’s a very small cat sitting on their doorstep, all black apart from its white paws and a matching spot under its chin.
“Aw, cute,” he says. “Do you know if any of the neighbours got a kitten?” He tosses his keys to Ilya and squats down to look closer. The kitten doesn’t run; it walks over to his outstretched hand and sniffs at his finger. Shane smiles. It really is adorable.
“I don’t—fuck!” The kitten doubles back at speed and shoots through the gap where Ilya’s just unlocked the door. “No!” Ilya shouts and takes off after it. Shane steps inside, pulling the door shut and dropping their bags in the hall. A bark sounds from the kitchen, and he hurries back there.
Ilya’s crouching on the floor over Anya, his hand on her collar, murmuring soothingly. She’s wagging her tail now so Shane doesn’t think she’s too traumatized by the tiny home invader. He looks around for the kitten, and sees it by Anya’s bowl, crunching the kibble.
“Hey! That’s not for you,” he says.
“Stay, Anyushka, good girl,” Ilya says in Russian. “I’ll save you from that bad cat. Such a good girl.”
Stopping the kitten from potentially making itself sick on dog kibble is clearly Shane’s responsibility. He grabs it firmly by the scruff of its neck in one hand, and scoops his other hand under its body. It mews, surprisingly loudly for such a small animal, wriggling all the way as he manages to carry it through to the living room couch without getting scratched.
The kitten stands up on the couch cushion and looks down as if it’s surprised that the ground is soft. It mews again. Shane laughs at it, kicking off the running shoes he hasn’t had time to take off yet. Hopefully it’s ok after eating Anya’s kibble. It’s probably pretty hungry if it’s been lost for a while.
“Hi, котенок,” Ilya says, coming in. Shane isn’t sure whether he’s being addressed or if it’s the actual kitten. “I put Anya in the mud room.” Anya loves the mud room for some reason; she likes to sneak in there and cuddle up around their boots—usually Ilya’s.
Ilya perches on the arm of the couch and leans over the kitten. He gently raises its stubby tail. “I think it has balls,” he says dubiously. “Black and brown are always girls. Or mutants. Can’t tell from the colour, with black and white.”
Shane’s a little surprised Ilya knows that; he always says dogs are the best animal and Shane didn’t think he pays any attention to cats. The kitten walks closer to Shane, so he reaches out and strokes between its pointy little ears with his forefinger. It settles down into a loaf shape and starts kneading the couch cushion, claw tips piercing the fabric slightly. Between Anya, several suspicious stains they hadn’t cleaned up fast enough, and now the kitten, they might need to look at re-upholstering this thing soon.
The kitten closes its green eyes and starts to purr. “It’s pretty tame,” Shane says. “It has to belong to somebody.” He’s starting to hope that it doesn’t.
“Ok,” Ilya says. “I’ll take Anya out and ask the neighbours if they lost him. You watch the cat.”
Ilya heads out. Shane googles lost kitten, what to feed kitten and can cats eat dog kibble. Apparently they can in an emergency, even though it doesn’t contain the right nutrients for them to eat full-time. He gives it a little more kibble and a drink of water in a washed-out jar lid.
His phone rings. “I asked all along our street, nobody knows about this kitten,” Ilya says. “I also called vet’s office. Someone cancelled so they can see you at three thirty if you can get there. Use Anya’s carrier.”
“I should get some proper cat food as well,” Shane says. “Thanks. Good teamwork.”
“Go Centaurs,” Ilya says, laughter in his voice. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” Shane says in Russian.
The kitten doesn’t seem to mind being in the carrier, but once the car’s moving it gives a series of unearthly yowls all the way to the clinic. It pees in the carrier on the way, but Shane had expected that and put a puppy pad and an old towel down.
Michelle, the vet, knows Shane from bringing Anya in for routine checkups.
“Healthy little male,” she says, carrying the kitten back from the scales. “About eight or nine weeks old.”
She feeds him meat paste from a tube to get him to stay on the examination table while she runs a scanner over his neck and back. “No chip, but he’s a bit young for one anyway.”
“We did ask around, but I’ll put up a post on Nextdoor to see if anyone’s missing him.”
Michelle gives him a sympathetic look. “He’s got ear mites, and his fur’s a little matted from being outside. I think he might have been dumped. Not all pet owners are as responsible as you guys. Don’t bother to spay their cats, and then whoops, kittens. And then they toss them as soon as they’re weaned.”
“Ugh,” Shane says, resolving to check around for littermates of the kitten once he gets home. His phone vibrates in his pocket.
“Since we don't have his history and he's been outside, I'm going to vaccinate him, give him dewormer and treat the mites, if that’s ok. If he had shots before, this is just a booster, no harm done.”
“Sure.”
She grabs a chart. “If no one claims him, you can bring him back to neuter and chip him at four months old. Just keep in mind, if he was born feral, converting him to a fully indoor cat might take some work. Keep him occupied, lots of stimulation and play.”
“Our yard’s pretty large. We could get one of those outdoor cat enclosures,” Shane says, watching as the kitten eats a pill hidden in more meat paste.
“A catio? That’s perfect, best of both worlds.” Michelle prepares a syringe. "Keep him in a different room from your dog at first so they can just sniff each other under the door. You want them to get used to each other's scent initially. Then keep her leashed when they meet face to face and have treats ready. Make sure they have separate places for their food.”
Shane doesn’t mention that the kitten has already introduced himself to Anya and her kibble. The kitten cowers a little as Michelle swiftly slides the needle into the scruff of his neck.
“It’s for your own good, buddy,” Shane tells him, like Dad used to tell him at the pediatrician.
“There, all done,” Michelle says, wiping down the table. “Call us if you need anything else.”
Shane checks his phone on his way out to the car.
Ilya: I ordered for pickup at the store near the arena. Collect after 4:30.
Shane taps the link to the pet store website and logs in with Ilya’s email and password (Anya81). He scrolls down the order summary. And scrolls some more. Ilya has ordered three different brands of premium kitten food, cat treats, two ceramic bowls with the word CAT boldly printed on the side, a water fountain, a cat bed, a brush and comb, a smaller carrier than Anya’s, a multi-level cat tree, an automatic litter box, a normal litter box, a scoop and a bag of litter, and an assortment of toy mice, feathers on strings and catnip balls.
Shane: We don’t even know yet if someone else owns him.
Shane: Also I’m pretty sure neither Anya nor the kitten can read those bowls.
Ilya: We can donate it or something.
Ilya: We can afford it.
Ilya: Or if you must have inferior pet species, I hear Ottawa Humane Society has cats.
A smile spreads over Shane’s face. His cheeks and chest both feel warm.
Shane: ❤️
-----
A week passes. Shane’s Nextdoor post yields nothing but a bunch of likes and a few comments about how cute the kitten is. No one knocks on their door looking for a missing kitten. Anya and the kitten are cautiously re-introduced. She’s pretty chill about it, even when the kitten goes zooming about the room, climbing up the cat tree.
Anya’s dog hotel also has a cat section, but as the kitten isn’t fully vaccinated, Shane’s parents agree to pet sit while the Centaurs are on a road trip to Chicago and Detroit. They should probably hire someone to do that permanently, especially if Ilya manages to collect any more dogs.
They get back late on a Wednesday evening. Mom and Dad are both at the house, watching a movie.
“Did anybody call about the kitten?” Shane asks as soon as he can without being outright rude.
“Nobody called about the kitten,” Mom says. When Shane was little, they had a cat, called Neko, because Mom wanted him to know at least some Japanese words. Neko died when Shane was seven, and after that pets weren’t really feasible, with Shane’s hockey.
“I was about to take Anya for a W-A-L-K yesterday evening and when she went to the door, he followed her,” Dad says. “He’s going to grow up thinking he’s a dog. You should get him a harness.”
Somehow Ilya managed to miss that item in his raid of the pet store. The enthusiasm in his voice when he says, “Walk him around the yard!” suggests he's about to fix that.
Anya, who had come to greet them at the door, gets back in her bed. The kitten hops up on the edge of the dog bed and starts grooming the top of her head. Shane can hear the rasp of his tiny tongue on her fur. Anya snorts and flaps an ear, but doesn’t move otherwise.
“Shane,” Mom says quietly. “I don’t think anybody is going to call.”
----
The kitten likes play that involves chasing things. Shane rolls a plastic ball with a bell inside it across the hardwood floor and watches the kitten skitter after it.
“Sooty. Soot?” he tries. It doesn’t feel right.
“I don’t like it. Not a good sound,” Ilya says.
“Shadow?” Shane suggests. “No, that sounds like an X-Squad character. Blackie?”
He’s scraping the bottom of the barrel of ideas here. Ilya gives him a quizzical look, like he’s surprised to find Shane has new depths of boringness to reveal.
The kitten poke-checks the ball and it rolls close to Ilya’s socked foot. He taps it back and the kitten whirls around, batting the ball in front of him until it rolls under one of the armchairs.
“Scooooore!” Ilya cheers, throwing his hands in the air. “Assist to Rozanov! Look at those silky mitts!”
“Mittens,” Shane says.
----
“Ilya?” Shane calls.
“Here!” Ilya’s voice calls from the living room. “I cannot move. Your stupid cat has trapped me.”
Shane goes into the room. Ilya’s lying on the couch. There’s a small ball of black fur tucked in the hollow of his neck and shoulder, and he’s holding his phone up with his left hand so he can see the screen without moving Mittens.
“My stupid cat, is it,” Shane mutters, biting his lip on a smile. “Right. You could just move him.”
Ilya gives him an indignant look. “But he’s sleeping.”
Shane pulls out his own phone to take a photo.
-----
They’re on the couch, Ilya’s warm weight all over Shane. Shane gets his hand into Ilya’s curls, urging on the hot mouth on his neck.
“Fuck,” Ilya mutters. Suddenly, Ilya is no longer kissing Shane's neck. Ilya’s hand is no longer inside Shane’s sweatpants.
“Don’t stop,” Shane whines.
Ilya shifts backwards and upwards. Shane opens his eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“Look behind you,” Ilya whispers. Shane twists his head around. Mittens is sitting on the armrest behind his head, white paws tucked neatly in front of him. Staring.
“Mittens, don’t be creepy,” Ilya orders. “Go! This is not for innocent kitten eyes.”
Mittens does not go. Ilya sighs heavily.
“Do not move,” he says, getting off Shane altogether. “I’ll fix this. He cannot resist the wet food.”
-----
Every few days, Shane scrolls Ilya’s Instagram. To his followers, the random photos on Ilya’s feed must often be a mystery, but not to Shane. He knows.
There are also photos of Anya. So many photos of Anya.
Repost of a video the Centaurs posted, of a soccer ball stuck in the ducting of the Canadian Tire Centre and Bood trying to poke it down with his stick. Picture of Anya on a walk. Picture of Anya and Mittens sleeping. Latte art (coffee date in New York). Menu at the Kingfisher. Photodump of eleven pictures of Anya. Selfie with Svetlana when they met up with her in Boston. Selfie with Marly and other Bears players. Photo of a partially used sleeve of Premium Plus (Ilya had been feeling crappy and Shane had fed him crackers, ginger ale and soup). Video of Mittens leaping around the cat tree.
Photo of Shane on the couch this time. After they got married, Shane had given Ilya a standing green light to post to socials, provided the photos aren't embarrassing. Most of his face isn’t visible because Mittens is asleep on his shoulder, but Shane thinks he was asleep as well. Anya is lying on his feet. Ilya doesn’t usually bother with captions, but this time he’s added Family.
Shane hits the like button.