Fostering the Goddess

By Laralyn Ellsworth

“Last year, we placed over six hundred kittens into foster care! That’s a lot of names, and we don’t allow any to be reused. Every kitten is unique!”

The bubbly shelter manager flipped to the next slide in her presentation. Everyone in the class gave a drawn out “Awww!” at the collage of  kitten photos labeled with names like “Snickers” and “Bowser.”

“Some of our foster families choose a fun theme,” she continued, “like candy bars or movie characters.”

Arty leaned over and whispered, “We should do Egyptian deities! Ancient Egyptians worshiped cats.”

I grew up in a confirmed dog-people household, but Arty’s a cat person. Let the record show that fostering kittens was his idea.

Soon after the training class, a dozen photos of fuzzy little angels with big, round eyes appeared in Arty’s inbox under the subject line “Fosters Needed.”

Arty and I looked at the email together, oohing and aahing over the pictures. We stopped at the description of a single black-and-white female.

Arty grinned. “I love tuxedo cats. They look so prestigious.”

I shrugged. “She’s kind of cute, I guess. She looks like the cat in that old TV cartoon.”

“One might be a good number to start with?” Arty said, looking hopeful.

“Okay, yeah,” I said. “Just one could be nice. Definitely less work.”

“And she’s already six weeks old,” he pointed out, “so it’s only a two-week commitment.”

I nodded. “Okay, let’s do it.”

Arty replied to the email and soon received approval to pick her up.

“Here she is!” The shelter manager smiled brightly, handing us a travel crate. “This one is extra sweet!”

From inside the carrier, I heard a tiny peeping “Mew!”

I peered inside, and my voice instantly, involuntarily, rose two octaves. “Oh, hello there, cutie-pie!”

“Wow,” Arty chuckled. “I’ve never heard that tone from you before.”

“She’s so cute!” I squeaked. I stuck my fingers through the wire door and tried to pet the fuzzy little black-and-white shape blinking at me with giant green eyes.

At home, we set up the kitten room as instructed—a private space just for her, so she could roam around without getting lost or stuck or falling. In other words, the guest bathroom.

“What should we name her?” I poured litter into the box, coughing at the powdery cloud of clay dust.

Arty pulled out his phone and studied it. “Well, Bastet was the name of the actual Egyptian cat goddess. And look, she has a black head and a white dress, so that’s quite appropriate.”

The kitten tried to climb Arty’s leg, making it halfway up his calf before tumbling down. She was all black except for white slippers, a white mustache, and a white inverted triangle of extra fluffy fur on her chest. I had to admit, she was absurdly adorable.

“Bastet. That works for me.” I picked her up. My voice slipped into the baby talk register. “Does that work for you, little Bastet?” I cooed. “Are you a little goddess, Bastet? Do you demand worship? Hmm?”

Bastet’s eyes flashed red.

“Um… Arty?”

“Yeah?”

“Do cat eyes turn red?”

“What?”

“Well, her eyes went red for a second. Maybe it’s a light thing? Like how they can see in the dark?”

Arty gave me an “Okay, crazy” look and took Bastet from my arms. “She’s probably just hungry.” He popped open a can of kitten pâté, shook it into her dish, and set her in front of it.

Bastet devoured it while making more tiny “Mew!” noises.

I started to pet her, but Arty tugged me toward the door. “Come on. Let her eat in peace.”

Christa—friend, cat person, know-it-all—came over the next day.

“Awwww!” Christa squealed when I held Bastet out to her. “She’s the cutest! Well, except for my cats, of course.”

“Of course.”

“What’s her name?”

“Bastet.”

Christa looked up at me sharply. “You named her Bastet?”

“Yeah, like the Egyptian cat goddess.”

“I know who Bastet is,” Christa rolled her eyes at me, then went back to fawning over Bastet. “I just think it’s a bad idea to name a cat after her,” she said in a much higher voice while scratching Bastet’s tummy.

“What? Why?”

“Because Bastet was a dual goddess. Bastet was the gentle, domesticated one. Her other side was Sekhmet, the fierce lioness warrior. Mistress of Dread. She Who Mauls. Not sweet and cuddly. Not tame.”

I peered at Bastet, who was chewing on Christa’s finger.

Bastet gazed back at me, and her eyes flashed red.

“Christa… what made Bastet turn into Sekhmet?”

“Oh, you know, war, revenge, hunger.”

“You’re saying Bastet got hangry and turned into her evil twin?”

“Yeah, basically. Naming her that just seems like asking for trouble.” She buried her face in Bastet’s fur. “Isn’t that right, little Lady of Slaughter?”

When Christa left, I put Bastet in her room with a generously filled bowl of kibble. Bastet sniffed at the kibble then flopped onto her bed.

“Arty, there’s something weird about Bastet.”

Arty looked up at me from his computer. “What do you mean?”

“Her eyes did that thing again.”

A thud, followed by a crash, shook the floor of Arty’s office. The power went out and the sound of gushing water roared through the walls.

Look, it’s not that I’ll never be a cat person. I’m trying.

It’s just that no dog would ever turn into an evil plague goddess, curse your family, and rain destruction on your house, all because you fed her dry kibble instead of pâté.

It took us two months to rebuild the guest bathroom, and another two months for Arty to convince me to try fostering again.

“We won’t name them after Egyptian deities,” he assured me. “We can pick a different theme. Something safe, like famous inventors.”

Unwisely, I let myself be persuaded.

Soon we were welcoming Edison and Tesla. They didn’t stop squabbling the entire car ride home.

“Um… Arty? Can cats summon lightning?”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Laralyn Ellsworth lives in Vancouver, Washington (not the Canadian one) and writes fiction, poetry, and essays. She also fosters kittens with her husband and makes big, delicious vegan messes in her kitchen. Her day job involves software and microwaving the cup of tea she forgot to drink.

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