The first thing I do at the hotel is to set up the room for him: the litter box against the wall a good distance from the door, the feeding station by the mini-fridge, the cardboard scratching post next to the bed. It’s been six hours since Miles and I left our apartment in D.C. for Cambridge, where I’ll be teaching for the next 10 days at a low-residency MFA program. Miles hops out of the carrier and flops down on the floor next to me. He rolls around, stretches and arches his back while I scratch his belly.
After a few minutes, he gets up to explore the room, rubbing his cheek and forehead on the carpet and the furniture, returning to me for frequent headbutts and belly rubs. The scent line he’s drawing is as clear to him as red paint would be to me. I don’t move from my spot on the floor until he’s been to every corner and back several times, securing the two of us in the center of his territory. I have a reception to attend, but I take my time unpacking. The space he outlined fills with objects he recognizes from home. By the time I leave, he’s had his first meal, drunk some water, squatted in the litter box to pee, and settled on the couch whose upholstery he won’t be able to resist in spite of the cardboard scratcher I had delivered to the hotel ahead of our arrival. The gap between the woven threads is the perfect size for a cat’s claws to sink into. This is our fourth trip together and the second stay at this hotel. We are in a different room but the furniture, the layout, and the artwork on the wall are nearly identical.
