The Purrfect Wingman

Balancing grad school, hospital rotations, and a heavily pregnant foster cat in a Newark walk-up wasn’t the dream life I had envisioned at age twelve, staring at a career board with “Doctor of Psychology” scrawled across it in pink gel pen. But it was my life—and most days, I had it under control.

Most days.

Today was not one of them.

I was three pages into a paper on trauma-informed therapy approaches, halfway through reheating leftover pasta, and midway through talking myself out of crying over an unsent text from my residency supervisor when a yowl broke through the apartment like a foghorn.

“Spitfire,” I groaned, slamming the laptop shut as the tab with my half-finished reference list blinked at me in judgment. “What now?”

Another yowl. This one was somehow louder and more dramatic, as if she’d taken up opera as a pregnancy hobby, or maybe this was her normal speaking voice, who knows.

I found her crouched on top of the fridge—yes, on top—her rounded belly drooping over the edge like a furry avalanche waiting to happen. She looked down at me, tail flicking, golden eyes narrowed as if to say, I own you. Do something about this.

“You know you’re the one who got yourself up there,” I muttered, reaching for the step stool I’d reluctantly purchased after her last acrobatic display ended with an overturned blender and me sobbing into a bag of frozen peas on my nose that broke the blender’s fall.

Spitfire was, in every way, the cat I didn’t ask for but somehow deserved. A tortoiseshell calico with an attitude that could cut glass and a belly full of future chaos, she had been abandoned near the shelter where I volunteered during undergrad. I agreed to foster her just until she gave birth and the kittens were weaned. That had been nearly two months ago.

She showed no intention of leaving.

“You’re too pregnant for acrobatics,” I said as I coaxed her into my arms. She growled, not because she hated me—no, that would be too straightforward—but because growling was her default communication style.

I set her down on the floor and nudged the nesting box I’d built out of a plastic storage container and three towels. She sniffed it, sneezed, and walked away.

Naturally.

The microwave beeped. I’d forgotten the pasta again. I let it sit. My stomach was too knotted to care anyway.

Between double shifts at the hospital and trying to keep up with lectures and clinical notes, I was one missed deadline away from a full psychological spiral. My life had become a checklist of survival tasks: keep the cat alive, show up to rounds, remember to eat something with protein, and don’t cry in public.

I bent down to scoop Spitfire’s kibble into her bowl and caught sight of myself in the reflection of the oven door. Hair in a frizzy bun, hoodie covered in fur, eyes shadowed like I’d been punched by sleep deprivation itself.

Hot.

My sisters got meet-cutes with hot guys. My older sister Xenia was Pongoed, if you don’t understand the term, go watch 101 Dalmatians, and you’ll understand, in Central Park, and fell in love with Clay Nikolaidis, who resembles a statue of a Greek god more than a real man. And now my baby sister, Amaya, has her dream guy. Sure, there was way more chaos for Amaya and Alan, but the end result was the same… true love. Meanwhile, I had cat puke on the floor and haven’t been on a date since Spitfire came into my life and scared off the guy I was sort of seeing by using his testicles as cat toys while we were in bed.

Still, I wouldn’t trade it. I’d worked hard for this messy, inconvenient independence. Even if it came with hairballs, burnout, and a cat that clearly thought I was her underpaid assistant.

As Spitfire yowled again and waddled toward the bathroom like she was preparing to deliver her kittens in the sink, I sighed, reached for the mop, and muttered, “Please wait until the weekend. That’s all I ask.”

Because if Spitfire went into labor before I finished that paper, we were both going to need therapy.

Spitfire eventually settled into her favorite nesting spot—my laundry basket, naturally—curling around her swollen belly like a smug croissant. I didn’t have the heart to kick her out, even if it meant all my socks would now be infused with the scent of judgment and Fancy Feast. I backed out of the closet quietly, grabbed my half-reheated pasta, and collapsed onto the couch.

The cushions sank lower than they should’ve. I made a mental note to flip them sometime next week. Or never.

As I picked at my food, I let my thoughts drift—not to my to-do list or the fifteen unread emails from my clinical supervisor, but to my siblings. It was something I did more often than I admitted. Thinking about them grounded me. Reminded me that chaos ran in the family, and somehow, we all made it through.

I’d always been the one who knew. From the time I was old enough to draw crayon hearts next to “PhD” on my career board, I had a plan. Psychology wasn’t just an interest—it was a calling. I wanted to understand people, their broken pieces, and tangled wiring. I wanted to help. That clarity had been my anchor through every AP class, scholarship application, and late-night meltdown.

Ace, on the other hand—our eldest sibling and only brother—was more of a wild card. He was charming, infuriatingly attractive (not that I’d ever tell him that), and allergic to anything resembling a five-year plan. Last I checked, he was bartending in downtown Newark and was still debating whether he should finally attend EMT school, start a podcast, or buy a motorcycle. Or maybe all three in the same week.

He was the first to rush in when Amaya was taken. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t even stop to think. Just went. That was Ace in a nutshell. No compass, just heart. And chaos.

Then there was Xenia. My older sister didn’t find her path until later, but when she did? Dog training became her everything. She went from teaching basic sit commands to running a full business with waitlists and social media fame. Once she committed, she committed. She always had this no-nonsense confidence, a way of setting boundaries with love and affection. She was getting married soon to Clay, who somehow made her laugh even when she was ready to throw him off a ferry. They were perfect in a weird, growly, cinnamon roll-meets-wolfdog way.

Amaya, the youngest, had been the question mark. Sweet, artsy, a little spacey at times—she wasn’t sure what direction to go. But then everything changed with the Marigold Grove. The fight for that park, the way she stood her ground against Alan’s nightmare of a biological father, the way she turned grief and fear into purpose—it lit something in her. Now, she was unstoppable. Fierce, focused, and somehow still full of soft love for the world. She’d found her thing. And I had no doubt she’d change the world with it.

I was proud of all of them, even when I wanted to duct-tape their mouths shut. But I couldn’t lie—there was something reassuring in knowing I’d always been the steady one—the one with a clear direction. The one who didn’t chase chaos, but studied it, diagnosed it, and found patterns in the madness.

I looked around my tiny studio apartment. Laundry in piles, textbooks half-open, Spitfire kneading her claws into my clean clothes like she was baking resentment into them.

Okay, maybe not entirely steady.

Still, I’d worked hard to get here. Independent. Focused. Not relying on anyone, especially not a man, to “rescue” me. Love was beautiful in theory, but messy in practice. I’d seen enough of it secondhand to know I didn’t have the luxury of risking everything for something that might not last.

I had a path. I had a cat. I had lukewarm pasta and a dream.

And really, what more could a girl ask for?

Other than maybe a cat that didn’t yowl like a demon every time she moved. But that was asking too much.

The smoke hit me before the sound did.

It was faint at first—a sour, acrid scent curling into my apartment like a bad idea slipping under the door. I sniffed once, then again, setting my fork down. My stomach dropped. Something wasn’t right.

A second later, the fire alarm from a nearby unit started screeching. Not my unit, not yet—but close enough that the sound jolted me straight up from the couch, knocking over the half-eaten pasta bowl in the process. Tomato sauce splattered across my rug like abstract horror.

“Great,” I muttered, already grabbing my hoodie and phone. “As if I needed more reasons to spiral today.”

Spitfire didn’t react. She was still sprawled in the laundry basket like the world was her heated throne. I gave her a quick glance. “Stay put,” I warned, like that would ever work.

I cracked open the front door, heart already thudding. The hallway reeked—burned plastic, something sharp and wrong—and a thin haze of smoke was drifting along the ceiling like a ghost looking for trouble. Down the hall, I could see one of the apartment doors ajar, gray wisps slipping through the gap.

“Hey!” I called out instinctively, stepping into the corridor. “Is anyone—?”

A flash of orange caught my eye.

Shit.

There was definitely a fire. Small—at least for now—but flames were licking up the side of a trash can and creeping along the wall like it had somewhere to be. The hall’s smoke detector finally kicked in, blaring loud enough to rattle my molars.

Panic clenched my throat. I ran back into my apartment, slammed the door behind me, and grabbed the cat carrier. “Spitfire! Let’s go!”

She blinked at me from the closet like I was the problem.

I dropped to my knees beside the laundry basket, shoving aside socks and stretched-out bras. “Come on, baby. This isn’t a drill. There’s a fire.”

She yowled. Loudly. Dramatically. And bolted under the bed.

“Seriously?” I groaned.

I crawled after her, shoving the storage boxes aside, dust bunnies collecting on my sleeves. My phone buzzed in my hoodie pocket—probably an emergency alert—but I couldn’t stop, not with Spitfire pressed flat against the wall, eyes wild.

“I know you’re scared,” I whispered, breath catching in my throat as more smoke slithered under the door. “I’m scared, too. But we have to go.”

I reached for her—she hissed, swatted at me, and tried to dart past. I barely managed to grab her mid-lunge, cradling her against my chest as she thrashed like a furry chainsaw.

I didn’t even get the carrier open before the fire alarm in my unit started wailing.

My heart shot into my throat.

Smoke was filling the apartment faster now. From the hall? From under the floorboards? I didn’t know. All I knew was I couldn’t see the microwave anymore, and I could feel the heat blooming behind the wall like something was breathing down my neck.

I shoved Spitfire into the carrier mid-scream—mine or hers, unclear—and coughed as I stumbled toward the door. But when I opened it, the hallway was a choking mess of black smoke and flickering light. My eyes watered. I couldn’t tell how far the flames had spread.

For one paralyzing second, I froze. My instincts told me to run. My brain reminded me that the nearest exit was around the corner and down a narrow flight of stairs—stairs that might already be compromised.

I coughed again, clutching Spitfire’s carrier. She was still growling, and I couldn’t blame her.

“Okay,” I whispered, half to her, half to myself. “We’re gonna get out. I’ve got you.”

But I had no plan. No map. Just a heart beating way too fast, lungs filling with smoke, and a cat who absolutely hated me right now. And still—I wouldn’t let go.