Encouraged by the fact that she hadn’t yet tried to kill me, I took another step forward—then froze in place when her growl rumbled back to life.
Okaaaayy, we’ll take it very slooowly.
“You know, this would be much easier if you would Shift. That way you could actually tell me what you want to eat. Or your name. Or exactly how far you’d like me to shove this olive branch up my ass.”
The tabby snorted. She was laughing! “Aaaah, you do understand me.” I smiled, and pride bubbled up inside me. I bet Dr. Carver didn’t get her to laugh. Or even listen. “So what do you say about Shifting? If you’re worried about your clothes, I’m sure I have something you can wear for now.”
The tabby’s eyes narrowed, an oddly human gesture, but perfectly understandable, especially once she cocked her head to one side. “You don’t understand me?” I paused, as another possibility occurred to me. “Or you don’t like what I’m saying…Is it the clothes? You don’t want to wear my clothes?”
That made sense. Werecats have very sensitive noses, even in human form, and she’d be surrounded by my scent if she wore my clothes, even if they came right out of the dryer. I wouldn’t want to walk around smelling like anyone else. Except maybe Marc…
“I can send someone out for new clothes, if you want. And you can wear a sheet or a towel in the meantime. Would that work?”
She tilted her head again, and I frowned. Maybe she really didn’t understand me…
“I need a sign that you know what I’m saying. How ’bout a head nod? Nod your head if you understand me.” Of course, if she didn’t want to do that either, I’d never know whether we were having a communication problem, or she was just stubborn.
The tabby nodded hesitantly.
“Good. Wonderful.” Now we’re getting somewhere. “Okay, are my clothes the problem? You don’t want to wear my clothes? Nod for yes, shake your head for no.”
This time she just stared at me, not moving her head in either direction. Hmm. Maybe my questions weren’t very clear. She’d responded to the mention of food earlier…
“Are you hungry?” I asked, and the tabby nodded in slow, exaggerated motions. Awesome. “Can I send someone to the kitchen for food?”
Instead of nodding, she glanced at the door. In cat form, she could probably hear them breathing, whereas I only heard feet shuffle on carpet as they listened to our one-sided conversation.
“So, no food? Or no guys? You want me to get it myself?” I backed toward the door, and the tabby swung her head back and forth vehemently, rising to sit on her haunches. “No? You want me to stay?”