"According to our records, you're listed as Mr Samson's second next of kin," said the voice on the phone. "We tried to call his wife but-"
"Mom doesn't have phone on when she's working. What's wrong?" I asked, feeling like there was a lead weight in my stomach.
"We need you to come in right away. There's been an accident."
I gout out of work and drove over to dad's work as fast as I can. The pharmaceutical manufacturing plant sat on the edge of town. They manufactured rejuve serum for animals, the DNA goop that rich folk inject into their pets to give them an extra decade or so. You could smell the agar from a mile away.
The foreman's face was grim as he met me in the carpark. He led me inside, past bubbling serum open to the air and pointed up at a high gantry above one them. "He fell from up there. He must have slipped. He was only in it for a few moments but… well… he's through here."
Unsure what to do with him, they'd locked him in a closet, like he was a dangerous animal or something. He'd been a big guy, and my stomach twisted to see his work overalls hanging loose about his delicate, female body. He was crouched on all fours, confused and scared.
I had a few harsh words with his employers. Actually I think I pretty much yelled at them, demanding to know how this happened. They were guarded about details - apologetic in tone but careful not to say anything specific or incriminating. They could smell the lawsuit brewing.
But there were more important things to worry about. I wrapped my jacket around dad's shoulders, coaxed him out of there with a packet of his favourite cigarettes, and got him to sit in the backseat while I rang mom. He recognised me at least, judging by the way his ears pricked up and his tail swished whenever I was close. He recognised his employers too judging by the clawed swipe he took at his boss on his way out. Good old dad.
I drove us home.
Life has had to change a lot since then to accommodate dad's disability. I've had to take time off work and try to take the shifts when I know he'll be sleeping. He's content enough alone, happy to sun himself in the windowsill for hours, but I worry when I'm not there. He's not dumb, but it would be lying to say the goop didn't get into his brain.
Like any animal, he has problems with impulse control. But, unlike an animal, he's smart enough to get himself into trouble. He still remembers doors and how to drive for example. I have to be firm with him. I felt bad changing the locks. Keeping him locked inside felt like I was turning him into my pet, but it was for his own good.
When he gets excited or agitated, he forgets how to speak English, but he's adapted to communicate most of his needs with miaows, purrs or body language until I'm able to calm him down.
Mom never had the time or patience for his care. The first time he went into heat, she offloaded him onto me pretty fast. Man, that was an awkward first week.
But, like I said, he's still him. He still loves beer and NASCAR, even if these days he's lapping the beer out of a bowl, and watching the TV curled up with his head in my lap, getting pampered with headpats and chin scratches, and watching the cars go round and round until he falls asleep.
Anyway, after three years, the settlement arrived in the post today. Two million dollars to cover his care. Two million dollars. I stare at the cheque while his pretty head snoozes in my lap, his ears twitching as he dreams of those cars like a cat dreaming of mice.
Just enough money for human rejuve therapy. Enough to fix him, make him human again. I stroke his soft, warm fur anxiously, hating that this decision falls to me, disgusted at what I'm considering.
He could be back, bearded, bald and bankrupt. Or she could stay as she is, the most pampered catgirl who ever lived, with a loving, millionaire owner.