Creative Writing Projects

The King of the Apartment - Creative Nonfiction

There’s something about pets that bring life to a space. I learned this only when I moved out of my parents' house into an apartment. Sure, I’ve had single bedrooms at dorms and the sorority house, but this was different. An apartment has much more opportunity for character than a dorm. There’s a balcony, windows, a living room and a kitchen, and for me, three roommates.

My house growing up was never without at least two cats.

As soon as I was given the opportunity, I knew I had to bring a cat into the apartment. It’s not that I needed one, I don’t have a need for an emotional support animal or anything to that nature. I just knew that a cat would be the perfect addition.

This was not an “Omg a kitten would be so cute!” kind of decision, rather one that just worked out.

My parents have four pets in their house: three cats and a dog.

One of the cats, Opal, spends most of her day outside roaming the yard or laying in the sun.

 Buzz, an overweight orange tabby, hides from people like the plague, unless they’re my mother of course.

Lyla is our dog; she’s about eight years old and lays on the couch all day. She has an issue with her knees which makes her less mobile than she was.

Milo is our oldest cat. He is very fluffy and white with dark grey tips. At 12 years old, Milo enjoys the company of people, resting on a bed, and has little desire to go outside.

So, when I decided to move in with my roommates in May, I asked my parents if I could take Milo with me. I wouldn’t have just found a cat to put in an apartment with four strangers.

First of all, rescuing a kitten takes a lot of time, commitment and energy.

Plus, my father has an allergy to cat dander. Believe it or not, there’s lots of that in their house. So, when I brought up the idea of Milo’s move, my father offered to pay the pet deposit for the apartment if it meant cutting down on his allergies.

Taking Milo made the most sense to everyone. He’s not too attached to his fellow household felines, he doesn't require outside time, and he’s quite aesthetically pleasing.

My new roommates jumped at the idea of taking him in. It was agreed that he would be the king of our castle; a boy cat plus four girls just makes sense.

All summer, I prepared to take him with me in the move. I scrolled Marketplace for plus-size cat trees, found a flushable cat litter (game changer, by the way), and found him an automatic feeder with a camera on it.

 My goal was to make the transition as smooth as possible for him. Luckily, my parents live right down the road. So, I waited until we were fully settled to bring him in.

At first, I wasn’t sure how he would do with the change in environment; my parents’ house was really all he ever knew. But thankfully he adjusted very quickly. Though he hated the car ride (and chewed through part of the carrier), he felt confident enough to roam about the apartment almost immediately once we arrived.

Milo has been a great point of connection between me and my roommates. We all love, admire, and play with him at night. My roommates even keep their doors open when they’re home so he can come and go as he pleases.

At my parents’ house, he never got much special attention. He’s always fed and cozy, but both of my parents work and don’t pay him much mind. Not to say he’s neglected, of course. It’s just not a very exciting scene for him.

Here, he is a bachelor who is loved on wherever he is in the apartment. He gets treats, pets, and lots of kisses.

He adds a certain ambience that the place would lack without him. I mean, what would we do without his long white hair on our dark clothing? He’s also massive and walks into a room like he has a red carpet.

He’s very friendly for an older cat, but he does have his quirks. When he’s had enough of us, he enjoys hiding in a dark corner of my roommate's closet or a small box under the coffee table. He also likes to sit at the dining room table with us as we do our work.

Speaking of carpet, it’s become a weekly chore of mine to brush him, outside of course. Clouds of white hair now highlight the courtyard by our patio. His fur clings on to every surface it touches, a small price to pay for his beauty.

While having a pet brings added responsibility, it also helps you grow. There’s a reason why parents will get their children a fish or a hamster when they’re young. Caring for a living thing teaches skills that transfer to taking care of yourself: keeping a tidy space, staying fed, etc.

The responsibility may seem a burden to some people, I’m at a point where if I can pay my own rent and feed myself, I can probably take care of a cat. A cat that’s already been house trained and socialized, but a cat nonetheless.

I believe that pets shouldn’t be seen as a burden or a ball and chain. I also recognize that I have the privilege of roommates and parents that have no objection to helping me take care of a pet. I’m very lucky. Milo is a great addition to my life, but he’s not my entire life.

Not to say that pet ownership comes without difficulty. Of course, it can get expensive; paying for his food, litter and pet rent isn’t my favorite part of having him around. It’s also less than ideal when I’m spending the night elsewhere and have to arrange for him to get his canned food.

To me, he’s worth the added responsibility. He’s worth the constant lint rolling and vacuuming, because he’s a little piece of home; my childhood cat. We’ve watched each other grow up.

I’m so happy that he and I can navigate life and settle into this new place together.

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Chapter 1 - Fiction Piece

She never imagined what the world would offer, life was easy in the three buildings of her enclosed city. Tunia didn’t feel the need to leave, nor did she realize it was an option.

Looking out the fourth-floor window of her tiny, closet-converted bedroom, she starred at the distant mountains capped with white peaks. She felt the cool November breeze run through her lungs as she pictured what the day would bring.

She looked around at her walls. Hand drawn pictures and paper airplanes covered the dark wood paneling, and stars carved from wood hung from a low, slanted ceiling.

“You better clean this up right now,” she heard from down the hall, “get your sister to help you if she’s awake.”

Tunia sighed and began to make her bed, knowing her peace would be disturbed within the minute. The sound of wooden clogs echoed down the hallway and stopped at her door. The knob shook violently.

“Sissy,” a voice yelled louder than needed, “Momma says you have to help me clean up.”

Tunia opened the door. “Fine, give me a second,” she said as she turned back to her vanity, grabbing a hairbrush. “What in the world is that smell?” She wrinkled her nose, almost scared to hear the answer.

Her sister, Daisy, stood at the door wearing a nightgown that had more holes than material. Her hair was unbrushed, and she had a stained and freshly wet scarf around her neck.

“I tried to make soup,” the four-year-old shrugged.

“Okay, what kind of soup?” Tunia looked at Daisy.

“Breakfast onion soup.” Daisy said as she flung herself onto Talia’s bed.

“That explains the smell,” Tunia sighed. She slipped her shoes on and threw a blanket over her shoulders.

“Come on, we don’t want Momma to have to tell us again.”

Tunia grabbed her sister’s hand and pulled her off the bed. They made their way down the stone stairs to the first floor of the skinny flat.

In the kitchen, the floor was soaked with slimy water and broken eggs. Tunia looked down at her sister then back at the mess.

“How did you manage to spill soup in every corner of the room?” She rubbed her face with both hands and reached for the nearest cloth, handing it to Daisy.

Daisy started picking up chunks of onion and eggshell before sopping up the broth.

Tunia turned toward the pantry for more materials. She opened the door and leapt back as a small black mouse ran out.

The mouse stopped at her feet and looked up, making eye contact with Tunia.

“Run,” it squeaked.

Tunia stopped, looked over to her sister and turned back to the mouse, but nothing was there. She thought for a moment, decided it wasn’t possible, and reached for the mop.

The girls finished cleaning the kitchen and Daisy huffed, throwing the rags in a bucket. She looked up at Tunia.

“I’m still hungry.” She starred up at her sister.

“Yeah, me too,” Tunia looked around the kitchen. “Go ask Momma how she wants her eggs.”

As Daisy ran up the stairs, Tunia pulled a cast iron pan out from the cupboard and set it on the wood-burning stove. There were small red embers glowing in the firebox, but not enough to cook breakfast with. She threw on an apron and headed through the side door of the kitchen out to the backyard.

She carefully lowered herself down the icy stone stairs, glancing over to the chicken coop then back down at her feet. She made her way to the coop, across the muddy path that cut through the half-acre yard. Chickens murmured within a covered hutch as Tunia let herself into their gate.

“Alright ladies, what’s on the menu today?” She said quietly, reaching under a broody hen. She pulled out two small eggs, moving on to the next chicken.

“Slim pickings today,” Tunia sighed as she looked down at the three eggs she had collected. “Better luck tomorrow, girls.”

She placed the eggs gently in her apron and left the coop. She grabbed two logs from the firewood pile next to the door and carefully climbed the slippery stairs.

Inside, Tunia kicked off her muddy boots and placed the wood into the stove along with a lit match. Smoke began to slowly spill out of the exhaust pipe. She set the eggs in a bowl and turned to the ice box for a slab of butter.

“Daisy,” Tunia called. “What’s the verdict?” She returned to the pan on the stove.

No response.

An egg sizzled as Tunia cracked it onto the hot pan and returned the empty shell to the bowl. She picked out a wooden spatula from the rack and turned to a shelf on the wall for a pinch of salt. She dusted the egg with salt and a dash of pepper, flipping it after a minute. Pulling out a plate, Tunia carefully transferred the over-easy egg onto the dish.

She glanced to the stairs and called again, “Daisy!”

Reaching for another egg, Tunia yelped as she saw two black mice running from the bowl carrying the empty eggshell. She swung at the counter with her spatula, missing the mice by inches. They dropped the eggshell off the ledge of and both fell down after it. On the ground, they picked up the broken shell and shuffled it under the door of the pantry.

Tunia rushed to the pantry and opened it to find no trace of the mice.

“Shoot!” She stomped back to the stove, picked up another egg, and cracked it into the pan.

Now frustrated, Tunia made her way up the stairs before making the third egg.

“Momma, how do you want your egg?” She called down the dark, narrow hallway.

No response. She continued down the hall. She felt the cold stone floors through her worn socks as low sunlight showed through the southern-facing window at the end.

Tunia stood in front of her mother’s heavy, oak bedroom door.

“Momma,” she repeated.

She let out two gently knocks, the door creaked open. Stepping inside the room, Tunia covered her mouth in horror.

The bed where her mother should have been lying was swarmed with a hoard of black mice. They ran circles around each other, squeaking the same sound Tunia heard from the mouse in the pantry.

“Run, RUN, run,” their tiny mouths repeated.

The mice stopped in unison and turned to Tunia. With hundreds of beady eyes looking back at her, she finally thought to take the advice.

She bolted out the way she came, back down the hallway and straight through the kitchen. She ran out of the back door, obliviously slipping on the icy stone steps. Everything went black.