Cats — We Buy

Mrs. Gable went home and looked at her oldest cat, Barnaby. She thought of all the nights she’d cried into his fur after her husband passed. She thought of the secrets she’d muttered while pacing the floor. She never went back to the shop. Neither did anyone else.

In a town where every storefront whispered of "Cash for Gold" or "We Buy Used Cars," a new sign appeared overnight in a dusty window on Main Street:

No explanation. No phone number. Just three words in bold, black Helvetica. we buy cats

Within a week, the sign was gone. The shop was empty, save for a single, stray ginger hair on the mahogany counter. The townspeople stayed quiet, but they all started talking to their cats a little more softly—just in case someone was still listening.

The townspeople were baffled. Old Mrs. Gable, who lived in a house overflowing with tabby cats, marched in on Tuesday morning. She didn't want to sell her "babies," but she had to know what kind of monster was trading in feline lives. She thought of the secrets she’d muttered while

He leaned forward. "We don't keep them. We listen to them. We have a 'Translator' in the back—a machine of tubes and velvet. Once we’ve downloaded their memories of sunbeams and human whispers, we return them to the 'seller' with a generous check and a bag of premium tuna."

"You buy cats?" Mrs. Gable demanded, clutching her handbag. "For what? Research? Fur?" In a town where every storefront whispered of

Behind a high mahogany counter sat a man who looked like he was made of lint—grey suit, grey hair, and a soft, static-filled voice.