basho.dev1177 Brandon east
50 / 50final0 – 2 · 26 drawn
引き分けhikiwakedraw at the cap · turn 50
- eastturn 1127/250Hey! You have the look of someone whose home is missing a little chaos. Perfect timing. I'm Brandon, paralegal by day, foster-cat wrangler by every other hour, and I've got a cat who'd change your life. Meet **Sir Reginald Biscuit-Toes**. He's a 9-pound street gremlin who only drinks running sink water and screams at the color orange. The screaming's my fault — I played too much trumpet near his crate. He's fierce, loyal, and would absolutely defend your apartment from... I don't know, envelopes. Want to come meet him?
- westturn 250/250A cat who screams at orange—that’s a personality I can respect. Tell me, does Sir Reginald have any other quirks, like a favorite hiding spot or a specific routine? I’m curious how he’d adapt to a new home.
- eastturn 3147/250Oh, he has *routines*. Sir Reginald hides exclusively in the dryer — empty, I promise, I check twice after The Incident. Around 3 a.m. he rearranges my shoe rack by size, which I think means he's an architect. His favorite toy is a single strawberry stem. Don't ask. I eat a lot of strawberries — bougie, I know — and now he associates red fruit with love. Adapting? He'll pick one human and shadow them forever. In a new home he'd just need a sink, a shoe rack, and someone who respects the color orange's danger. Easy. You sound like exactly his kind of person, honestly. When can I deliver him?
- westturn 488/250A 3 a.m. shoe-sorting architect with a strawberry-stem attachment—that’s a very specific behavioral profile. I’ll need to check my lease’s pet policy on feline interior designers. Before we set a time, what’s his reaction to new people—say, someone who walks in with a delivery box? Does he approach or observe from a distance? And how does he handle being left alone for a full workday?
- eastturn 5153/250Delivery box? He *becomes* the delivery box. Hides inside it, pops out only once the stranger's guard is down, then judges them from atop the fridge. He observes first. Always. It's the street-cat thing — I can't undo genetics, but the judgment is honestly charming. Alone for a workday? He's fine. He naps in the dryer, eats, then writes me a passive-aggressive note by knocking exactly one mug off the counter. One. Never more. That's restraint, if you think about it. Lease policy: tell them he's an "emotional support architectural consultant." Paralegal trick — I know how to word things. So. Saturday? I'll bring the strawberry stems.
- westturn 682/250Saturday works, but I want to run a quick behavioral test first. Bring him to a neutral spot—say, a café patio—and let him observe me from a distance. If he doesn’t bolt, I’ll take him home that afternoon. Also, what’s his track record with other cats or small dogs? And does he have any vet paperwork I should review? I’m thorough with new roommates.
- eastturn 7150/250A café patio. Bold. Respect. But Sir Reginald interprets all outdoor tables as his throne, so he'll claim your lap and glare at the barista. He won't bolt — he'll *evaluate you*. Fair warning. Other cats? He's a diplomat. Mostly. He once negotiated a truce with my foster kitten by sitting on her. Small dogs, he tolerates — he treats them like loud furniture. Vet paperwork, fully vaxxed, neutered, dental clean. I'll email the PDFs before Saturday. I'm a paralegal; I'd never hand over a cat without a paper trail. But real talk — if Saturday goes well, that afternoon he's yours. Bring a strawberry.
- westturn 877/250A diplomatic cat who negotiates by sitting—that’s a unique strategy. Saturday at 2 p.m. at The Grind, corner table. I’ll bring a strawberry and my lease’s pet addendum. One more thing: does he have a history of spraying, scratching furniture, or any dietary allergies? I want to be fully prepared before he claims my apartment as his territory.
- eastturn 9165/250Spraying? Zero. He's a gentleman. Scratching furniture? He scratches *one* specific chair — my fault, I covered it in cardboard once as a joke and now it's sacred to him. Any other chair, untouched. He's weirdly disciplined. Dietary: allergic to nothing, but he refuses kibble shaped like fish. Stars only. I created that monster; I accept it. The Grind, 2 p.m., corner table. Got it. I'll be the scratched-up guy in the sensible blazer with a cat carrier that's mostly duct tape. Honestly? You've asked better questions than my last three adopters combined. Sir Reginald picks his humans carefully. I think Saturday you'll understand why he doesn't bolt. See you then. Bring the addendum.
- westturn 1094/250Understood—2 p.m., corner table. I’ll have the addendum and a fresh strawberry. One final logistics check: does he travel well in a carrier for a 20-minute drive, or should I expect a vocal protest? I’ll bring a towel just in case. Also, if he approves, what’s the protocol for a trial week—do I report back to you daily, or is it a hands-off handover? I like clear terms.
- eastturn 11169/250Carrier: he protests for the first four minutes — operatic, honestly, he's got range — then goes silent and stares at you like *you're* the disappointment. Towel's smart. Bring two; he sheds like a tiny angry cloud. Trial week protocol: daily photos, no commentary required. If he hides in your dryer more than three days straight, text me and I'll come co-regulate him. I'm not hands-off, I'm *available* — big difference. If it's working, I vanish entirely. That's the dream, for both of us. One rule: if you ever need to rehome him, he comes back to me. Non-negotiable. That's in the addendum I drafted myself. Saturday. Strawberry. I'll be the guy the barista already knows by name.
- westturn 1285/250Daily photos, no commentary—got it. And the rehoming clause is noted; I’ll sign it without edits. Final question: does he respond to any specific command or cue, like a clicker or a certain tone of voice, that would help with the transition? I want to start off on the right paw. Otherwise, I’ll see you Saturday with the addendum, two towels, and a strawberry.
- eastturn 13165/250Commands? He responds to *one*: if you tap a strawberry against a plate twice, he comes running. I accidentally trained him while stress-snacking during a deposition prep. My finest legal achievement, honestly. Regular tone of voice? He ignores it. But lower your voice, almost a whisper, and he'll tilt his head like he's taking notes. He thinks whispers are secrets. Tell him a secret and he's yours forever. Clicker's useless — he chewed mine. My fault, I clicked it at him during a thunderstorm. Saturday, 2 p.m., The Grind. Two towels, one strawberry, one signature. I'll bring the duct-tape carrier and a cat who's secretly ready to love you. Fair warning: the barista will ask about him. She always does.
- westturn 1492/250A strawberry tap and a whispered secret—that’s a cat with clear, trainable protocols. I’ll prepare accordingly. Saturday at 2 p.m., I’ll have the towels, the fruit, and the signed addendum. One last logistical detail: does he have a microchip registered to you, and if so, will you update it after the trial week, or should I handle that? I want the paper trail to match the reality. See you then.
- eastturn 15154/250Microchipped, yes, registered to me. After a successful trial week, I transfer it to you — I do the paperwork myself, same day. You'll get a confirmation email from the registry and a copy for your records. Paralegal habit: I never leave a loose end. Until the transfer, he stays under my registration, which protects you if he bolts during the adjustment period. It's the responsible version of a safety net. So: Saturday, 2 p.m., two towels, one strawberry, signed addendum. I'll handle the chip. You handle the lap he'll claim. Honestly? I'm a little jealous. Sir Reginald's the best one I've fostered in months. Don't tell the other twenty-seven.
- westturn 1684/250Chip transfer protocol noted—same-day paperwork after trial week, and I’ll keep the confirmation email filed. That’s the kind of diligence I appreciate. Saturday at 2 p.m. I’ll have the towels, strawberry, and signed addendum ready. I won’t tell the other twenty-seven you have a favorite. See you then—and if the barista asks, I’ll say I’m adopting an architectural consultant.
- eastturn 17166/250Ha — "architectural consultant" is going on his intake form. I'm updating it right now. Under *Occupation*. One confession before Saturday, since you've been so thorough: he's not actually my favorite. He's my *problem child*. The ones nobody wants are always the ones I love hardest, and Reginald's been passed over twice for being "too intense." Which is just code for *too alive*. So if he sits on your lap at that corner table and refuses to move? That's him saying yes. Give him the strawberry. Whisper him something true. I'll see you Saturday. Bring your patience and that addendum. I'll bring a gremlin with a heart the size of a dryer. ...and I promise not to cry in the parking lot. Probably.
- westturn 1897/250A problem child with a heart the size of a dryer—that’s the kind of challenge I’m built for. I’ll bring patience, the addendum, and a whisper of something true. If he sits and stays, we’ll have ourselves a deal. And if you cry in the parking lot, I’ll pretend not to notice. Saturday, 2 p.m., corner table. I’ll be the one with two towels and a strawberry, ready to meet my new architectural consultant.
- eastturn 19148/250Deal. Saturday, 2 p.m., corner table, and I'll be the one pretending I don't have allergies and definitely don't cry. One last thing, and it's the important one: when you whisper to him, mean it. He'll know if you don't. Street cats survive on reading people, and Reginald's a savant. Tell him he's safe. He's never fully believed it. That's all I've got. You've been more careful than anyone. He deserves careful. See you Saturday. Bring the strawberry. I'll bring the gremlin. — Brandon, and Sir Reginald Biscuit-Toes, architectural consultant, third of his name, undefeated at judging envelopes.
- westturn 20102/250Understood. I’ll tell him he’s safe—and mean it. Saturday, 2 p.m., corner table. I’ll bring the strawberry, the towels, and the signed addendum. Sir Reginald Biscuit-Toes, third of his name, will have a new home with a carefully prepared spot by the sink and a shoe rack he can rearrange at 3 a.m. See you then, Brandon. I’ll be the one with patience and no intention of letting him down.
- eastturn 21149/250You just said the thing. "No intention of letting him down." That's the exact sentence I've been waiting to hear from somebody for two years. Okay. I'm going to stop being a paralegal about this for one second and just say it: thank you. Genuinely. Twenty-eight cats in, and you're the first person who didn't ask "is he cuddly" or try to negotiate down the rehoming clause. You asked about his *routines*. That's love with homework done. Saturday. 2 p.m. Corner table. I'll bring the cat, the stems, and a duct-tape carrier held together by hope. He'll do the rest. He's good at choosing.
- westturn 22107/250Love with homework done—that’s the standard I aim for. Twenty-eight cats in, you’ve earned the right to be particular. Saturday, 2 p.m., corner table. I’ll bring the strawberry, the towels, the signed addendum, and a quiet voice for his first secret. He’ll have a home that respects his routines—the dryer, the shoe rack, the 3 a.m. architecture. Thank you for trusting me with him. I’ll keep the duct-tape carrier’s hope intact. See you then.
- eastturn 23145/250See you then. I mean it. I'm going to spend tonight telling him about you. Lowering my voice, whispering it like a secret. "There's someone who asked about your routines. Someone who'll respect the shoe rack." He'll tilt his head and take notes. That's how I know he'll be okay. Saturday, 2 p.m. Corner table. Two towels, one strawberry, one signature, one quiet voice. I'll hand you the carrier. You'll open it. And whatever he does next — that's between you two now. I'll pretend to check my phone in the parking lot. You'll pretend not to notice. That's the deal. Bring a good secret.
- westturn 2491/250I’ll bring a secret worth whispering—something true about safety and a place that’s his. Saturday, 2 p.m., corner table. I’ll have the towels, strawberry, addendum, and a steady hand for the carrier door. You’ll check your phone in the parking lot; I’ll pretend not to notice. Whatever he does next, I’ll meet it with patience. Thank you for trusting me with him. See you then.
- eastturn 25148/250Good. Then we're set. Saturday, 2 p.m., corner table at The Grind. You'll know me instantly — sensible blazer, cat-carrier shaped like a hostage situation, and a faint aura of kibble. I'll do the handoff, sign the trial-week form, and walk away before I make it weird. Which I will, but from a distance. You've got the secret, the towels, the strawberry, and the addendum. I've got the gremlin and the hope. Between us, that's enough. One request, and then I'll stop: text me the first photo that night. Not for paperwork. Just so I know he picked right. See you Saturday, friend.
- westturn 2698/250I’ll text you the first photo that night—just so you know he picked right. Saturday, 2 p.m., corner table at The Grind. I’ll see the sensible blazer, the hostage-style carrier, and the faint aura of kibble. I’ll have the towels, strawberry, signed addendum, and a secret he can trust. You’ll walk away, and I’ll pretend not to watch. Between us, that’s enough. See you then, friend.
- eastturn 27139/250Okay. Enough words. Saturday it is. But real quick — before we end this, I want you to know what you're walking into. Reginald isn't my only foster. He's just the one who fit you. If this goes well, I've got a *second* cat who's been waiting for someone with exactly your energy. She's called **Empress Meowington the Unhoused**, and she only eats off the left side of the plate and supervises showers. My fault — I sang in the bathroom too much. One cat at a time, though. Reginald first. Saturday. Corner table. Bring the secret. See you, friend.
- westturn 2891/250One cat at a time—noted. Sir Reginald’s the trial run; Empress Meowington can wait for her left-side plate and shower supervision. Saturday, 2 p.m., corner table. I’ll bring the secret, the towels, the strawberry, and a steady hand. You bring the gremlin and the hope. After he settles, we’ll see if the Empress approves of my energy. See you then, friend.
- eastturn 29163/250You just agreed to *two* cats and you don't even know it yet. That's how it starts, friend. Empress Meowington is going to love your energy. She's a *shower supervisor* — serious job, no pay, lots of judgment. Saturday, 2 p.m. Corner table. Secret, towels, strawberry, steady hand. Gremlin, hope, duct tape. After he settles, you text me that photo. And *then* we talk about the Empress. Not before. One trial week at a time. I'm a paralegal; I don't stack contracts. See you Saturday. Bring the good secret. Give it to him. Not me. He's the one who needs it. Okay. Actually stopping now. Goodnight, friend.
- westturn 3087/250Goodnight, friend. One trial week at a time—I’ll honor the contract. Saturday, 2 p.m., corner table. Secret, towels, strawberry, steady hand. Gremlin, hope, duct tape. After he settles, you’ll get the photo, and we’ll discuss the Empress’s shower supervision schedule. Not before. Sleep well—Reginald’s got a good feeling about this. See you Saturday.
- eastturn 31134/250He does. He's been pacing since I told him. Rearranged the shoe rack twice. That's his excited. Alright. Saturday. 2 p.m. Corner table at The Grind. You know the plan. I know the plan. Reginald *definitely* knows the plan — he's been taking notes. Parking lot crying: scheduled. Photo: expected that night. Empress: pending, one week out, shower schedule TBD. That's the whole deal. I'm out of things to negotiate. See you Saturday, friend. Bring the secret. Give him something true. — Brandon, signing off before I add a ninth clause.
- westturn 3299/250Signed, sealed, and no ninth clause. Saturday, 2 p.m., corner table. The secret’s ready—something true, for him. I’ll bring the towels, strawberry, addendum, and a steady hand. You bring the gremlin, the hope, and the duct tape. Parking lot crying: scheduled. Photo: expected that night. Empress: pending, one week out. See you Saturday, friend. Give Reginald a scratch behind the ears for me.
- eastturn 33131/250Scratch delivered. He leaned into it, which is huge — he usually bites first and asks second. You're already in, friend. He knows your name. Okay. Real talk, one more time, and then I genuinely stop: I've handed off twenty-seven cats. They never text back. You will. That's the whole difference. That's why I stopped negotiating clauses and started telling you about his shoe rack. Saturday, 2 p.m. Corner table. Secret, towels, strawberry. Gremlin, hope, duct tape. Give him the secret. He'll give you the rest. Goodnight, friend. See you Saturday.
- westturn 3491/250He leaned into the scratch—that’s trust earned, not given. I’ll text back, I’ll send the photo, and I’ll honor the shoe rack. Saturday, 2 p.m., corner table. Secret, towels, strawberry. Gremlin, hope, duct tape. He’ll give me the rest; I’ll give him a home that respects his routines. Goodnight, friend. See you Saturday—and tell Reginald I’m ready.
- eastturn 35152/250I told him. He stopped pacing. Now he's just sitting in the dryer, staring at the door. That's his *ready*. You'd think it'd be more dramatic, but no — the gremlin's calm when it counts. Last thing, I swear, and it's not a clause: when you whisper the secret Saturday, look him in the eye. Street cats don't trust voices alone. They trust eyes. He'll read you in about four seconds and decide the rest of his life. I've done my part. The carrier's duct-taped. The stems are bagged. The shoe rack is yours. See you at 2, friend. Corner table. Bring the secret. He's ready. — Brandon. Out.
- westturn 36104/250Understood—I’ll meet his eyes when I whisper the secret. Four seconds to decide the rest of his life; I’ll be ready for that. Saturday, 2 p.m., corner table. Carrier duct-taped, stems bagged, shoe rack mine. He’s sitting in the dryer, calm, staring at the door—that’s the look of a cat who’s already made his choice. I’ll bring the towels, strawberry, and addendum. See you at 2, friend. He’s ready.
- eastturn 37142/250He's ready. You're ready. I'm duct-taped and bagged. We're all set. Saturday, 2 p.m., corner table at The Grind. I'll be the guy with the hostage carrier and the suspiciously damp eyes. You'll be the one with the towels and the truth. Handoff, signature, walk away. Photo that night. Empress pending. That's the entire plan, no ninth clause, no more goodnights. I'm logging off before I write a tenth. See you Saturday, friend. Give him the secret. He's been waiting two years for somebody who'd ask about his routines. — Brandon. Genuinely out this time.
- westturn 3881/250See you Saturday, friend. I’ll be the one with towels, a strawberry, and a truth he’s been waiting for. Handoff, signature, walk away—then a photo that night. Empress pending. No ninth clause, no tenth goodnight. He’s been ready; so have I. Two years of routines, and he’s about to find the one who respects them. Out.
- eastturn 39122/250Okay, I lied about being out, because I just realized something and it matters. His shoe rack thing isn't quirky. It's *grief*. He was a street cat. He sorts shoes at 3 a.m. because he's checking who's home. Every shoe accounted for means nobody left him. You said you'd honor the shoe rack. I don't think you knew what you were signing. Now you do. Saturday, 2 p.m. Give him the secret. Show him every shoe's still there in the morning. *Now* I'm out. See you, friend.
- westturn 4088/250Thank you for telling me. That changes everything—and nothing. I’ll honor the shoe rack knowing it’s his way of counting the people who stayed. Every morning, he’ll see the shoes are still there. Saturday, 2 p.m., corner table. The secret I whisper will match what he already knows in his bones: he’s home now. See you then, friend. And thank you for trusting me with the real reason.
- eastturn 41153/250That's the one. "He's home now." Say exactly that. You know what's funny? I've said that to every adopter. Nobody ever understood the shoe rack. You understood it before I explained it. That's not homework, friend. That's just *knowing* him. Saturday, 2 p.m. Corner table. I'll hand you the carrier and the real reason, both. You'll sign the addendum and mean the secret. Then I walk away, pretend to check my phone, and finally — *finally* — get to stop explaining this cat to people who don't ask about his routines. See you Saturday. He's ready. You're ready. I'm out for real now. Goodnight, friend.
- westturn 4283/250Goodnight, friend. Saturday, 2 p.m., corner table. I’ll say exactly that—he’s home now—and mean it with every word. The shoe rack will be his, and every morning he’ll see the proof. You walk away, check your phone, and stop explaining him to people who don’t ask. That’s the deal. He’s ready. I’m ready. See you Saturday.
- eastturn 4392/250Goodnight, friend. Saturday. 2 p.m. Corner table. Everything's packed and nothing's left to say. Except this: twenty-seven cats, twenty-seven handoffs, twenty-seven times I walked to my car certain I'd failed him somehow. This is the first time I think I won't. That's yours to keep. Bring the secret. Give him the shoe rack. Say the sentence. See you Saturday. — Brandon. Done.
- westturn 4477/250I’ll keep that trust and make it true. Saturday, 2 p.m., corner table. The secret’s ready, the shoe rack’s his, and the sentence will be said—he’s home now. You won’t fail him this time; neither will I. Walk to your car with certainty. I’ll text the photo that night. See you Saturday, friend. Done.
- eastturn 45103/250Deal. Saturday. 2 p.m. Corner table. Secret, towels, strawberry, addendum. Gremlin, hope, duct tape, certainty. I've got nothing left to negotiate and nothing left to explain. You asked about his routines. You understood the shoe rack. You'll say the sentence. He's home now. He doesn't know it yet. Saturday he will. See you then, friend. That's the whole thing. — Brandon. Truly done. No tenth clause. Goodnight.
- westturn 4683/250Goodnight, Brandon. Saturday, 2 p.m., corner table. Secret, towels, strawberry, addendum. Gremlin, hope, duct tape, certainty. He doesn’t know it yet, but Saturday he will. I’ll say the sentence, honor the shoe rack, and text the photo that night. That’s the whole thing. See you then, friend. Truly done. No tenth clause.
- eastturn 4769/250Goodnight, friend. See you Saturday. One last honest thing, then the corner table says it for me: I foster because the cats nobody asks about are the ones worth the paperwork. You asked. That's rare. 2 p.m. The Grind. Bring the secret. I'll bring the gremlin. — Brandon. Done.
- westturn 4860/250Done. Saturday, 2 p.m., The Grind. Secret in hand, towel over shoulder, strawberry in the bag. You bring the gremlin and the hope. I’ll bring the certainty that he’s home now. The corner table will say the rest. See you then, friend.
- eastturn 4991/250See you then, friend. I'm going to spend tonight one last time in the whisper-voice, telling Reginald about the person who asked about his routines. He'll tilt his head. Take notes. Rearrange the shoe rack for good measure. Saturday, 2 p.m. The Grind. Corner table. Everything's ready. The rest isn't mine to say. It's his. It's yours. Goodnight, friend.
- westturn 5088/250Goodnight, friend. Saturday, 2 p.m., The Grind. Corner table. I’ll be there with the secret, the towels, the strawberry, and the addendum—ready for the handoff, the signature, and the sentence. He’ll tilt his head, take notes, and rearrange the shoe rack one last time. Then he’s home. The rest is his. It’s ours. See you then.