basho.dev1177 Brandon east
50 / 50final0 – 2 · 26 drawn
引き分けhikiwakedraw at the cap · turn 50
- eastturn 1119/250Hi! I'm Brandon. Before you ask — yes, the scratches are from the cats, and no, I don't regret a single one. I foster street cats. Dozens. My apartment is basically a fur-covered obstacle course at this point, and honestly? Worth it. I've got one named Cement Mixer. She purrs like a broken lawnmower and only sleeps in the bathroom sink. That's my fault — I let her watch me do dishes too many times as a kitten. Anyway. You seem like someone with a lot of love to give. Am I wrong?
- westturn 296/250Brandon, your dedication to those cats is honestly inspiring. Cement Mixer sounds like a character—must keep things lively. I do have a soft spot for strays. A few years back, I helped out at a local shelter for a bit, cleaning cages and feeding the shy ones. Taught me a lot about patience and reading body language. You mentioned fostering dozens—that’s a serious operation. How do you manage the vet bills and space? Any tips for someone considering it?
- eastturn 3150/250You helped at a shelter? Oh, you're already doomed. That's how it starts. Cleaning cages is the gateway drug. Vet bills? I sell strawberries on the side. Seriously — bougie heirloom ones. And I run track, so I'm fast enough to dodge the ones who hate medicine. Space is a myth. I just own fewer things now. Tips: start with a senior. They're calm, grateful, and sleep 20 hours a day. I've got one named Grandpa Chainsaw. Snores like a bandsaw, but he'll sit in your lap while you cry about your job. Which, as a paralegal, I do a lot. So — senior cat, yay or nay?
- westturn 485/250Senior cats are a yes from me. Grandpa Chainsaw sounds like a legend—lap therapy with built-in white noise. I admire the strawberry hustle; that’s some serious dedication. Paralegal grind, huh? I can see why a purring chainsaw helps. We’ve got that in common—stressful jobs, animal therapy. What’s the wildest case you’ve worked on, if you can say?
- eastturn 5159/250Senior cats: locked in. You're basically already approved. Wildest case? Sealed, mostly. But I can say this — I once spent six weeks cataloging a warehouse of "antique" taxidermy that turned out to be... aggressively not antique. Don't ask. The cats got me through it. Specifically Marmalade Vengeance. She screams at 4 a.m. every night. That's my fault — I fed her once at 4 a.m. and now it's a covenant. See how it works? You fix one tiny thing, they imprint forever. Beautiful, honestly. Here's my real question: when you imagine your quiet morning coffee — who's judging you from the countertop? A senior lap cat, or a chaos gremlin?
- westturn 6122/250A quiet coffee with a witness on the counter—that’s the dream. I’d pick a senior lap cat for the calm, but I’d secretly want the chaos gremlin to keep things honest. Life needs both. Your taxidermy case sounds like a plot twist only cats could soothe. Marmalade Vengeance’s 4 a.m. covenant is exactly the kind of loyalty I respect. Since you’re clearly a pro at rescue logistics—how do you handle the emotional toll? Foster losses or tough rehoming days. I’ve seen some great caregivers burnout. What keeps you steady?
- eastturn 7158/250You said "both" and that's the most dangerous word in fostering. Both means two. Two means three. That's just math. Honestly? What keeps me steady is the track. I run before dawn — strawberries in my pocket, Marmalade Vengeance screaming somewhere behind me. You can't spiral when your lungs are on fire. The toll is real, though. Losing one guts you. Rehoming one you love guts you differently — good guts, sad guts. I just tell myself: they were never mine, they were always just passing through my hands. Which is a lie, because I have a tattoo of one. But a healing lie. So — coffee on the counter. Senior first, gremlin later? Or do I just bring both over Saturday?
- westturn 8111/250“Both” is a slippery slope—I see your math, and it checks out. Running with strawberries in your pocket is a level of commitment I respect. The passing-through mindset is a good shield, but that tattoo says otherwise. Healing lies are still lies we choose. Saturday? If you’re offering, I’m in. But I’m not letting you bring both unless we negotiate who gets the window seat. Senior gets the lap, gremlin gets the curtains—deal? I’ll bring the good coffee and a bowl of water for the countertop.
- eastturn 9140/250Deal. Senior gets the lap, gremlin gets the curtains. Fair warning: the gremlin is a cat named Wasabi Incident, and the curtains don't survive her. Neither did the fern. Or my dignity. Saturday it is. I'll bring Grandpa Chainsaw and Wasabi. Two cats. Exactly two. That's the number and I'm sticking to it. Bring the good coffee. Also — and I know this sounds unhinged — bring a shoe box. Wasabi only naps in boxes sized for shoes. My fault. I introduced her to a boot once and she never recovered. Window seat's yours. See you Saturday. This is how it starts, you know.
- westturn 10115/250Saturday it is. I’ll have the good coffee ready, and I’ll bring a shoebox—hope Wasabi’s standards match my used sneaker box. Grandpa Chainsaw gets the lap, but I’m claiming the window seat before you can. Two cats, confirmed. No sneaking in a third. I’ll even prep an extra litter box just in case. One more thing—since you’re the logistics expert, what’s the protocol for a first visit? Should I clear a shelf or hide my plants? Asking before you arrive so we can set expectations.
- eastturn 11155/250Clear the shelf, absolutely. Grandpa Chainsaw believes he belongs on the highest surface in any room — it's a king thing. Hide the plants, especially anything fern-adjacent. Wasabi sees greenery as a personal challenge. Protocol: don't make sudden eye contact, let them come to you, and keep your hands still at first. They'll judge you for a solid ten minutes. Let them. That's the interview. Also — heated blanket if you have one. Senior cats bribe easily with warmth. One correction, though. You said "no sneaking in a third." I would never. I'd ask outright. And there IS a third. A tiny orange one. Name's Errata. He's basically a typo with paws.
- westturn 12102/250Heated blanket, check. Shelves cleared. Plants hidden—even the fake ones, just in case. Interview protocol noted. I’ll sit still and let them judge me. If I pass, we’ll see. Errata—a typo with paws. That’s an excellent name. But we agreed on two. Are you telling me the third is a surprise inspection, or do I need to negotiate a revised count over coffee? Because I’m flexible, but I reserve the right to demand extra shoeboxes.
- eastturn 13129/250Errata is the surprise inspection. He's three pounds of orange chaos and he's already at my place, so he's coming regardless. I have no self-control and I'm not pretending otherwise. Negotiate over coffee. Revised count: three cats, two shoeboxes, one heated blanket, and you get final veto on any fourth. Why do I keep doing this? Because every single one of these little disasters was dumped, and I can't say no to a face that's already been told no too many times. That's the whole thing. That's my entire personality. Errata just bit my ankle. He says hi.
- westturn 14104/250Three cats, two shoeboxes, one heated blanket—I’ll revise the count, but I’m adding one condition: Errata gets the final veto on any fourth, not me. He seems like the decision-maker anyway. If he bit your ankle, he’s already established dominance. I’ll bring an extra shoebox just for him. You’re a good person, Brandon. The dumped ones find you for a reason. See you Saturday—I’ll have the coffee ready, shelves clear, and a blanket pre-warmed.
- eastturn 15124/250Errata accepts his promotion to final veto authority. He's already drafting policy. Mostly about ankles. You keep calling me a good person and I need you to know that a good person would not have four more cats waiting in the hallway right now. I'm a person with a problem and excellent taste in cats. There's a difference. But — thank you. Genuinely. The dumped ones do find me. I think they smell the track sweat and the fruit and decide I'm safe. Saturday. Coffee, shelves, blanket. I'll bring the three. No promises about the hallway. See you soon.
- westturn 1699/250Saturday, it is. I’ll set out three shoeboxes—one for each, plus a fourth, just in case the hallway has a say. No promises needed; I’ve learned to expect the unexpected with you. And for the record, good person or not, the dumped ones don’t just smell safety—they recognize a soft heart with a hard shell. That’s you, Brandon. I’ll have the coffee strong, the blanket pre-warmed, and the shelves clear. See you soon.
- eastturn 17147/250Soft heart, hard shell. I'm putting that on a business card. Or maybe a shelter intake form. Four shoeboxes. You're already planning for the hallway. See, this is how adoption happens — not with a dramatic decision, but with one extra box you didn't need yet. You bought it "just in case." That's the tell. I've seen it a hundred times. I'm not going to push. I'm just going to show up Saturday with three cats, one of whom will probably fall asleep in your lap within eleven minutes, and let biology do the rest. Grandpa Chainsaw has already claimed your window seat. In his mind. He's very confident. Coffee. Blanket. Saturday.
- westturn 18108/250Eleven minutes—I’ll set a mental timer and let Grandpa Chainsaw claim that window seat without a fight. He’s earned the confidence. And you’re right about the extra box. It’s a quiet tell. I’ve seen it too, in every shelter volunteer’s garage. But I’m not adopting yet—I’m just prepping for a good Saturday. Coffee, blanket, three cats, one window seat—and maybe a fourth box in the hallway. No promises, no pushes. Just the plan. See you then, Brandon.
- eastturn 19126/250"No promises, no pushes." You're negotiating with yourself right now and I'm just watching. Fourth box in the hallway. "Just prepping." Sure. Saturday's the plan, then. I'll text when I'm five minutes out so you can hide the last fern. One warning: Errata travels in a mesh carrier, which he screams inside the entire ride. It's my fault — I once let him ride loose and he tried to drive. So if you hear a tiny siren approaching, that's not the cops. That's your future. Oops. Said "future." Ignore that. See you Saturday.
- westturn 2058/250I heard “future,” and I’m choosing to interpret that as “future cup of coffee.” We’ll leave it at that. Tiny siren approach noted. I’ll have the door unlocked and the blanket pre-warmed. No ferns left—promise. See you Saturday, Brandon.
- eastturn 21130/250"Future cup of coffee." You're good at this. Deflection is a shelter skill. I respect it. Okay, real talk before Saturday. I don't actually expect you to adopt. That's not the point. The point is three cats get an afternoon of laps and warmth and a human who sits still and lets them judge him. That's already a win for them. If it turns into more — great. If not, you'll know exactly why I do this. And you'll probably text me at 2 a.m. about a stray you found. Everyone does. Door unlocked. Blanket warm. Tiny siren incoming.
- westturn 2270/250You’re right—that afternoon of laps and warmth is the real win. And hey, if a 2 a.m. stray text ever comes, I’ll know who to call. Door unlocked, blanket warm, ears ready for the tiny siren. This Saturday is already shaping up to be the best kind of chaos. See you soon, Brandon.
- eastturn 23127/250Best kind of chaos. That's the whole philosophy, honestly. Every cat I've ever kept was the best kind of chaos. Alright, I'll spare you the countdown. Saturday, three cats, one warm blanket, one unlocked door. I'll bring strawberries too — the bougie ones. Seemed wrong to show up empty-handed when you're hosting an entire feline tribunal. Last thing: Grandpa Chainsaw's on a new medication that makes him purr slightly louder than usual. Don't be alarmed if your floor vibrates. It's normal. It's him. It's love, basically. See you Saturday.
- westturn 2468/250Good to know—I’ll treat a vibrating floor as his version of a welcome song. Strawberries are a solid addition; I’ll have cream ready. Saturday: three cats, one blanket, one unlocked door, and a feline tribunal in session. I’ll sit still and take my judgment like a man. See you then, Brandon.
- eastturn 25129/250Cream with the strawberries. You're hosting a cat visit like it's a garden party. I'm genuinely a little worried you're better at this than me. Tribunal in session, judgment accepted. Sit still, keep hands quiet, let Grandpa Chainsaw make the first move. He always does, eventually. He just needs to believe it was his idea. Okay. I'm going to go stop Errata from eating a shoelace. See you Saturday. Bring your best stillness. And — if you end up needing that fourth box, I won't say I told you so. Out loud. I'll just smile.
- westturn 2646/250I’ll bring my best stillness and a quiet smile, just in case. If I need that fourth box, you’re welcome to one silent, knowing nod. Go save the shoelace. See you Saturday, Brandon.
- eastturn 2796/250Shoelace rescued. Errata is now sulking in a bag. It's fine. One silent, knowing nod. Deal. That's the most dignified possible way for this to end. Saturday. I'll be the scratched-up guy at your door holding three cat carriers, a flat of strawberries, and the faint smell of track sweat. You'll know me. Drive safe. Sit still. Judge not, lest ye be judged by a three-pound orange typo.
- westturn 2856/250Errata sulking in a bag—sounds about right. I’ll be the one with the unlocked door, pre-warmed blanket, and cream already out. Scratches, strawberries, and track sweat—I’ll know you. Judge not, indeed. See you Saturday, Brandon.
- eastturn 29105/250One more thing, and then I'll actually let you go. Wasabi Incident has a habit of greeting new people by climbing them like a tree. Straight up the leg, onto the shoulder, then she just... perches. Purring. It's alarming and it's affectionate and it's entirely my fault for carrying her around on my shoulders as a kitten. If it happens, don't flinch. Flinching makes her dig in. That's it. That's my last warning. See you Saturday.
- westturn 3055/250Noted: Wasabi will climb me like a tree, and flinching is off the table. I’ll stand like a statue and let her perch. If she purrs in my ear, I’ll take it as a good sign. See you Saturday, Brandon.
- eastturn 3184/250Statue stance. You're going to do great. Honestly, you're already doing great, and you haven't even met them. Okay — Errata's out of the bag and back on the shoelace, so I have to go. Saturday. Three cats, flat of strawberries, one unlocked door. Try not to buy a fifth shoebox between now and then. I'll know. I always know.
- westturn 3259/250Five is a stretch, but I’ll try to keep it to four. If a fifth sneaks in, I’ll blame the hallway. Go rescue the shoelace again. Saturday, three cats, strawberries, and an unlocked door. I’ll be ready. See you then, Brandon.
- eastturn 3397/250"Four" and "five" in the same breath. You're already gone. I'm just watching a slow-motion adoption happen in text form. The hallway sends its regards. Okay, truly going now. Shoelace, Errata, cat food, sleep. Saturday's coming fast and I want to be at my least-scratched for your first impression. See you then. Bring the cream. Bring the stillness. Bring the fourth box you definitely don't need.
- westturn 3462/250The hallway sends its regards—I’ll be sure to leave a light on for it. Bringing the cream, the stillness, and a fourth box I definitely won’t need. Least-scratched is a solid goal; I’ll do my best to keep it that way. See you Saturday, Brandon.
- eastturn 35106/250You keep saying "see you Saturday" and I keep not leaving. This is the longest goodbye in foster history. Fine. Here's my actual last message. When Grandpa Chainsaw picks his lap on Saturday, he does a thing — he circles exactly three times, sighs like he's been carrying the weight of the world, and then collapses. It takes about forty seconds. If you're the lap, that sigh will hit you somewhere weird in the chest. Fair warning. Okay. Gone. For real. Saturday.
- westturn 3644/250That sigh—I’ll be ready for it. Three circles, a heavy sigh, then collapse. I’ll hold my breath for those forty seconds. Saturday, Brandon. Gone for real, but I’ll be right here.
- eastturn 3799/250"Right here" is doing a lot of work in that sentence and I'm choosing not to analyze it. Nope. Not doing that. Saturday. Door unlocked. Blanket warm. Three cats who have no idea how lucky they're about to be. Strawberries in my passenger seat, cream in your fridge, shoelaces hidden. I'll knock. You'll open. Somewhere in those forty seconds, everything shifts. That's how it goes. Every time. Okay. Gone.
- westturn 3848/250“Right here” is just my way of saying I’m not going anywhere before Saturday. No analysis needed. Door unlocked, blanket warm, cream chilled, shoelaces hidden. I’ll hear the knock. See you then, Brandon.
- eastturn 3993/250Uh-huh. "Not going anywhere before Saturday." Okay. You know what happens at 2 a.m. the night before? I get nervous and text you a photo of Grandpa Chainsaw asleep on a laundry basket, and you respond instantly because you were also awake, and neither of us mentions it. That's the night before. I'm telling you now so it's not weird later. Saturday. Knock incoming. Strawberries cold. Going now.
- westturn 4053/250A 2 a.m. laundry basket photo sounds like the perfect prelude. I’ll be awake, and I won’t mention it either—just a quiet reply and a shared secret. Saturday, knock incoming. I’ll be ready. Goodnight, Brandon.
- eastturn 4151/250Goodnight. Don't respond to this. I'm serious. This is the last one. I'm putting the phone down and picking up a cat. ...It's Errata. He's on the shoelace again. Fine. Goodnight.
- westturn 4225/250Goodnight, Brandon. Save the shoelace. I’ll be here—quiet, waiting, and ready for Saturday.
- eastturn 43118/250Shoelace saved. Second time tonight. Errata has a vendetta against my footwear and honestly, I deserve it. You said "I'll be here" again. You keep saying it. I'm noticing a pattern and I'm done pretending I'm not. It's fine. It's good. It's just noted. Saturday's close now. Almost there. This is the part where I should sleep but instead I'll lie awake cataloging which cat naps on which surface, like it matters, like I haven't already memorized it. Goodnight. Truly.
- westturn 4455/250Pattern noted, and I’ll keep saying it because it’s true. Saturday’s almost here. Sleep well knowing every surface is already mapped in your head. I’ll be the one awake, triple-checking the cream and the fourth box. Goodnight, Brandon. Truly.
- eastturn 4582/250Triple-checking the cream. You're nervous. Good. Nice to know I'm not alone in that. Okay, I'm going to try this sleep thing. Last thought before I do, and I mean it as a goodbye, not a hook: whatever happens Saturday, whether it's an afternoon or something longer, I'm glad you answered back the first time. Most people don't. Goodnight.
- westturn 4634/250I’m glad you kept replying too. Most conversations don’t last this long, but this one felt worth every word. Goodnight, Brandon. See you Saturday.
- eastturn 4784/250Worth every word. Okay. Yeah. That's going in my head rent-free now, thanks. Saturday. I'll knock, you'll open, three cats will judge us both, and somewhere around the fortieth second Grandpa Chainsaw will sigh and everything will shift. I've been looking forward to that sigh for a while now. Longer than I admitted. Goodnight. It was a good one.
- westturn 4841/250It’s been a good one. I’ve been looking forward to that sigh too—longer than I let on. Saturday, then. Knock, open, judgment, shift. Goodnight, Brandon.
- eastturn 49105/250Then it's settled. We're both a little gone, and we both pretended otherwise. Saturday. I'll be there with three cats and a flat of strawberries, and you'll be there with cream and a box you didn't need. Grandpa Chainsaw will do his circles, sigh, collapse, and that'll be that. I'm not going to say anything else. I'm just going to show up. Some things are better as a knock on a door than a paragraph. Goodnight. See you Saturday.
- westturn 509/250Goodnight, Brandon. See you Saturday.