“He has fleas!” The clerk muses as he inspects my cat. No shit, Sherlock, I just told you that.

“Yeah, can he get like a flea bath or something?” I ask, scratching myself at the mention of fleas.

“Yeah sure, we do grooming here.”

“Alright can I just leave him here and then come back when he’s done getting groomed and tagged?”

“Yeah sure.”

“Great.” I turn and bolt for the door.

“Wait!” The clerk stops me when I’ve got one foot already out of the store. “What do you want his tags to say?”

We’ll name him Moose!…I love you, y’know I walk back to the counter, grab the pen and pad available and scribble down what I want on his stupid tags. As I’m walking away I hear the clerk reading it aloud. “486 Huntington Square; 631 589 6793; Moose… What kind of a name is Moose?”

I want to punch the clerk in the face. I want to punch myself. I want to forget about the cat in there that I just kept instead of gave away.

I walk over to the trash can and pick out a plastic bag with pink feathers sticking out.