Not as a pet, exactly. More like part of the clinic. He slept on a folded towel behind the desk, wandered the hallway like he paid rent, and sat in the window every morning as if he were clocking in for a shift.
Then one Tuesday, a little gray cat came in for an exam.
She was terrified from the second she arrived. She slammed herself against the carrier door, breathing fast, eyes blown wide, making those low panic sounds cats make when they think something terrible is about to happen. Her owner was near tears. I couldn’t even get the carrier open without making it worse.
And then Patch walked over.
He didn’t rush. Didn’t act curious. He just came up beside that carrier and sat down.
That was it.
He sat there with his crooked ear and his bad paw tucked under him, calm as Sunday morning. After a few seconds, the little gray cat stopped throwing herself around. She pressed up against the side of the carrier closest to him. Patch blinked slowly at her once, then laid down.
The room went quiet.
I remember just staring.
We got through the exam. Not perfectly, but better than anybody expected. The next week, it happened again with another scared cat. Then again. Patch would show up at the door, settle himself nearby, and somehow the fear in the room would come down a notch.
