Chapter Text
when your mother warned you to stay away from men, you didn’t realize she meant all species of men. in your defense, you didn’t even know mr. pickles was…well, a dudette . a full-fledged woman, even.
judging by her usual air of indifference toward the struggles of life — whether it be a broken mug, burnt toast, or the existential dread and fear of capitalism looming over you — you’d assumed she was male. an assumption, it seems, born of sheer hubris. after all, you’d done thorough background checks on everyone else you let into your life. everyone except the stray cat that had waddled into your overpriced studio apartment one rainy night and decided it was hers.
the truth? you didn’t mind. between cramming for your degree and surviving the post-mortem of your relationships (both romantic and platonic, because apparently humans are terrible at consistency), mr. pickles became the one reliable constant in your life. albeit a hairy, aloof constant who occasionally brought you hairballs and dead bugs as sacrificial offerings to her goddess. you, of course, were said goddess.
any normal, functioning adult would have taken her to a shelter, or maybe put up a flyer: “found: one stray cat, bad attitude included.” but you, lonely soul that you were, took her in. except, it hadn’t been that simple. no, the first night you met her was anything but serene.
you were drunk. plastered. wobbling through the door with a bag of takeout in one hand and your heels in the other, ready to collapse onto your bed and dream about a life where rent didn’t cost your soul. but instead of an empty apartment greeting you, there she was. sitting smack in the middle of your living room like some furry squatters’ rights advocate, tail flicking with utter disdain.
you froze, still holding the doorknob, as your eyes locked with hers.
"what the —" you whispered, blinking hard to confirm you weren’t hallucinating. nope, she was real.
the cat let out a long, guttural “ yeowwwwwwwwwl ,” like she was just as horrified by you as you were by her.
you screamed. naturally. "who are you?! how did you get in here?! security’s supposed to be good — oh my god , is that a rat? "
she screamed back, launching into an impressive round of yowls that rattled your very bones. it became a chaotic symphony of you, still holding your takeout, pointing at her with your shoe, while she darted back and forth in an apparent panic over your panic.
"okay, okay," you gasped after what felt like hours but was probably five minutes. " just — calm down! i’ll call the cops or animal control or — do i even know animal control’s number? is that a thing people know?!"
the cat paused mid-panic, tilting her head as if considering whether you were worth the hassle. then, slowly and with the grace of a self-proclaimed queen, she sat back down.
you stood there, panting, wide-eyed, and still clutching your takeout like a lifeline. "are…are you done? can i move now?"
she gave a single chirp in response.
you blinked. "was that a yes?"
another chirp.
"okay, cool. good talk," you muttered, inching toward the kitchen counter to set your stuff down. "you know, you really picked the wrong apartment to haunt, bro. you don’t wanna hang out here."
she followed you, hopping onto the counter with zero hesitation.
"oh, you’ve got nerve," you grumbled, waving a hand. "get down. that’s…oh my god , is that chicken grease? you’re gonna get salmonella. do cats get salmonella?"
the cat meowed, which you took as a very sarcastic no .
you sighed. "great. now i’ve got a cat."
let’s rewind back to the future, to the moment you found out mr. pickles had a party of tiny paws brewing in her belly. it wasn’t an epiphany that hit you like a bolt of lightning — no, it was a series of increasingly bizarre events that gradually chipped away at your ignorance until the horrifyingly adorable truth came crashing down.
first, let’s talk about “ pinking up .” apparently, around 16-20 days into pregnancy, a cat’s nipples turn pinker and more prominent — a fact you learned after a very awkward google search. not that you were actively inspecting mr. pickles’ nipples. that felt…wrong. but you did notice, eventually.
the weight gain started subtly, a little extra fluff around her midsection that you brushed off as the result of switching to a premium brand of cat food. "guess the organic kibble’s working," you mumbled one evening as mr. pickles sprawled on the couch like a spoiled heiress. she blinked at you, unimpressed, before rolling onto her side, belly on full display. it was… rounder than usual. suspiciously so. but denial is a hell of a drug.
then came the morning she beat you to the bathroom. literally.
you were nursing a wicked hangover, the kind that makes you reconsider every life decision leading up to the night before. groaning, you dragged yourself out of bed and toward the bathroom, only to freeze in the doorway.
there was mr. pickles, perched in your shower cubicle, hurling her guts out like she’d been partying harder than you.
"what the —" you started, but she cut you off with another violent retch.
you just stood there, slack-jawed, your own nausea momentarily forgotten. "are you… hungover? can cats be hungover?"
she ignored you, finishing her business before hopping out of the shower with a nonchalance that screamed you’ll clean that up, right?
and the sleeping? don’t even get started on the sleeping. mr. pickles, your once lively (read: temperamental) companion, now spent her days passed out in the weirdest positions. you’d leave for class, catch her sprawled upside down on the couch with her legs in the air, and come back hours later to find her in the exact same spot. the first time it happened, you panicked.
“mr. pickles?” you whispered, crouching beside her. no response.
"oh my god, are you dead?" you poked her back. nothing.
just as you were about to call your landlord and have him prepare for the worst, mr. pickles let out the laziest, most judgmental yawn you’d ever heard.
then came the personality shift. the mr. pickles you knew — the one who hissed at your laptop every time you opened it, as if microsoft word had committed a personal offense — was gone. in her place was a clingy, purring ball of affection. she started curling up on your lap while you worked, purring loud enough to rival an industrial saw.
“awwww, who’s a good kitty?” you cooed, melting into the moment. and then she shed enough fur on your clothes to build a second cat.
but the final straw , the one that shattered your fragile understanding of reality, was the nesting.
you came home one evening to find mr. pickles frantically rearranging your laundry basket, clawing at the clothes and dragging them into a fluffy pile. she paused when you entered, her eyes wild with an intensity you’d never seen before.
"uhh…what are you doing?" you asked, only to be met with a deep, guttural growl.
"okay, that’s new," you muttered, backing away slowly. "you do…whatever that is."
it hit you then. the weight gain, the puking, the clinginess, the nesting. oh my god.
"oh my god ," you whispered, clutching the counter for support. "mr. pickles is a girl. "
your world tilted. memories of every time you called her sir or buddy flashed before your eyes. you were the problem.
you rushed her to the vet the next day, bursting through the door like a contestant on a reality show. "she’s been acting weird," you blurted to the receptionist. "and by weird, i mean…is she pregnant? "
one checkup later, the vet turned to you with a warm smile and uttered the words that changed everything: “congratulations, you’re a mother.”
your jaw dropped. "what? no. no, i’m not. she’s — she’s the mother!" you gestured wildly to mr. pickles, who was now lounging on the exam table like this was all very boring.
the vet chuckled. “well, technically, that makes you a grandmother.”
a grandmother. you, a college student, were a grandmother.
as you drove home in stunned silence, mr. pickles stretched out in the passenger seat, her belly looking smugly round. you glanced at her, still reeling.
“does this mean i have to start calling you mrs. pickles now?”
she purred. of course she purred.