The day Larry got a friend

Arms deep in the mouth of a decrepit car, working to get the engine roaring to life again like it once had so many years ago, he heard it.

“Mrroww…”

Over the clamor of wrench clanking against metal, and rusty creaks of the popped hood, he heard a strained meow from behind him. Larry throws a cursory glance, brow furrowing.

What in the world… Am I hearin’ things?

He thinks to himself, but that idea is shot down like game when another raspy whine echoes from the alleyway a few paces to his left.

It doesn’t take long before Larry tosses his oily tools into the car’s innards and plods toward it, curious to the sound. Tension in his core is palpable as he rounds the corner, only to find a beaten up trash can, something underneath feverishly scraping at the heavy lid that had it ensnared. It was an ominous sight, the top of the trash can babbling, being the only thing holding back the unforeseen beast.

Tentatively, Larry gripped the handle and with a deep breath, flung it off.

Oh.

A small gas kitten, no bigger than his fist, stared back at him with big ol’ goggle eyes. The critter was visibly frightened, bronze fur ruffled like it’d been struck by lightning, tiny claws unsheathed, and vent tail taller than a wooden plank.

“Hey, buddy…” Larry said in a low scratchy growl of a voice. He gingerly scoops the scraggly bugger into his gloved hands. “What’re you doing in the trash?” he cooed, dusting off the grime clinging to its fur. Poor thing was scared stiff, tucked into the wall of his curled fingers, shaking.

Larry understood it’s terror, he was a big guy with ugly teeth twisting out his jaw, must’ve thought this was its last moments before being shoved into that hungry maw. But this stray had nothing to fear, the only thing Larry would be eatingng was scrap tamales for dinner later tonight.

Larry gently lifted its chin to expose its cream-colored neck to check for any fleas, but the gaskit was so filthy, he couldn’t tell if it was specks of dirt or blood-sucking parasites disguised as little pepper flakes he was seeing. Either way, the stray would need a bath.

The crocodile tucks his new-found responsibility into his shirt and trots over to the nearest body of water, a river just down by the grove where the last remnants of the animal kingdom flocked for unpoisoned drinking water.

Taking off his gloves, he cops out the shivering kitten from his pocket like he was about to make a payment with it and cradles it into his palm. With a scaly hand, he cups water and gently pours it over the kitten, before slowly dipping it into the flowing stream, to which it wails in protest.

“I know it’s cold, I’m sorry,”

Larry scrubs the muck from the gaskit, massaging into the creases of its ears, mouth, and nose where stubborn grime had collected on the mask. He scratched its hind legs, and the grumpy gaskit nearly did the same with his wrist, kicking at crocodile, before Larry gently submerged its lower half into the water again.

“Yer doin’ good, nearly done…” he mumbles with concentration.

Larry focused on its vent tail, puffing a generous amount of smog into the air more than an amicabot with a fossil fuel burner. Knowing it was probably a sensitive area for the cat, he instead allowed the current to sweep away all that gunk and ash from it.

He takes the fella by the scruff and gently squeezes its bottom like he was wringing out a towel and dries it off with his shirt, stained with oil.

“There we go, you ain’t so stinky now,” Larry chuckles, gently scratching its striped head with one big claw. He cradles the gaskit as he would a newborn to his humming core and carries him home. It was a disheveled tunnel tent, one he had to duck down to walk in lest his head scrape the roof. “It ain’t the prettiest place, but it's home,” he says with pride, taking the soggy, curled gaskit to his sleeping bag.

It scurries to slip under the crevice of the bed and hide, and Larry decides to let the skittish creature rest for now as he prepares dinner.

Taking two bits of metal, he bent it into a roughly-tamale-shaped hunk of scrap, and began to chow down, sparks flying off his teeth as he crunched it like nothing. His gaze was beckoned back to the bed with a quiet mewl from inside, and he twisted off a piece to offer the little gaskit.

Instead of eating it like he expected, it waves its paw around erratically, batting at the piece. Larry laughs, which sounds like a thousand bullfrogs croaking at once, unintentionally scaring the kitten back into hiding. “Oops, sorry,” he winced. “Spunky little guy, I should give you a name… You look like a Dave to me, Dave, David…” he waffled. “Might keep you ‘round, dunno,”

The crocodile lays on his belly and gently rubs two fingers together, “Pspspspsp…” and tentatively the cat creeps out from under the sleeping bag. He gently scratches its head with his single claw like he had before, and holds out his palm for the kitten to crawl into.

Behind the goggles, he can see consideration in his empty head. David, after a moment of staring, hops into his hand and curls up, and Larry brings him back to his chest, rewarding him with more gentle strokes.

David buries his rubber snout into his thumb, and does something that catches Larry off guard. It starts vibrating like the gears whirring to life.

Is it malfunctioning? I thought this thing was organic,

Then, suddenly his mind flickered to a nugget of wisdom his predecessor shared with him about animals, something about how when they purr and wag their tails, they like you.

“Aww… Cute lil’ fella,” he muttered. It was purring, it must’ve warmed up to him.

It was the first time he ever felt a cat purr, and it warmed his core more than any healthy dosage of uranium could.