She hesitated, then added quietly, “I have high blood pressure. I’m on medication. I need my sleep. I manage an apartment building—constant complaints. I’m exhausted. I’ve even locked him in the kitchen a few times. He screamed so loudly the neighbors hit the walls.”
That sentence—“I’ve started getting angry with him”—is usually when pets end up rehomed.
I examined Oliver. Healthy coat. Strong heartbeat. Steady breathing. Calm temperament. Nothing abnormal.
Except one thing: the way he looked at Linda. Not like a source of food. Like someone he was responsible for.
“Has he always been calm?” I asked.
“Yes. When my husband was alive, they watched baseball together. After he passed, Oliver slept beside me. I used to say, ‘At least someone’s breathing next to me.’”
“And now he doesn’t want you breathing next to him?” I said lightly.
“Exactly!” she burst out.
“Does he wake you at the same time every night?”
“Almost always between three and four.”
“And before that?”
“I fall asleep around eleven. I take my pill. Then it’s like I sink into something. And he drags me back out.”
Drags me back out. That phrase lingered.
“How do you feel when you wake up?”