My Rainy Night Dasher is a Cat
The delivery guy’s voice was… strange.
“Human, it’s raining. Please wait.”
It was weird enough that I peeked through the peephole when he arrived.
Standing outside my door was a drenched little cat.
“Human, first delivery for cat. Cat got lost.”
“Please don’t give cat a bad rating.”
1
It was late, the kind of late that bleeds into early, and my stomach was staging a protest. I sat curled in my desk chair, the glow of the monitor the only light in the room, my stomach’s empty whines a sad counterpoint to the drumming rain outside.
My fingers moved on their own, scrolling through the DashEats app. A picture of a spicy Szechuan chicken bowl glistened under the digital lights, a beacon of greasy hope in the stormy night.
Estimated delivery time: one hour.
Just as I hit ‘Confirm Payment,’ a low rumble of thunder rolled through the sky. The storm had come out of nowhere. I figured a long wait was part of the deal.
My phone buzzed a few minutes later. I answered, and a bizarre, electronic voice crackled through the speaker.
“Human, it’s raining. Please wait.”
The voice sounded like it had been scraped through a voice modulator with a claw, each word laced with a fuzzy, vibrating hum.
I stared at the app’s animation: Your Dasher is on their way! A little orange cat avatar was bouncing up and down under a cartoon raincloud.
When the doorbell finally rang, I crept to the door and peered through the peephole.
The hallway’s motion-sensor light flickered erratically, illuminating a soggy cardboard box tied with a lopsided, baby-pink ribbon. Beneath the box, four muddy paws were planted on my welcome mat. An orange-and-white tail was curled around a plastic bag, pushing it forward.
“Human, first delivery for cat. Cat got lost.”
A pair of amber eyes, dripping with rain, blinked up at me. Tiny, crystalline water droplets clung to its whiskers.
The food bag was wrapped in three layers of waterproof film. When I peeled it back, a cloud of steam billowed out, instantly fogging my glasses. On the blank space of the receipt, a perfect, tiny paw print was stamped in ink. Next to it, in wobbly letters, were the words: FIVE STARS PLEASE.
My food had been delivered… by a cat.
I opened the door and knelt. I saw an old, faded scar on the cat’s right hind leg, pale and puckered from the rain.
“Do you… need a towel?”
Before I could finish, the orange cat had already backed away to the corner of the landing, its tail-tip deftly pressing the elevator button. Just as the doors slid shut, I could have sworn I saw it lift a front paw to its forehead in a comical, clumsy salute, just like a human delivery driver.
If it weren't for the little paw print still on my receipt, I would have thought it was all some ridiculous, hunger-induced dream.
A cat… Dasher?
2
The second time we met, it was raining again.
This time, it was a Spicy Tom Yum Soup. The order was accepted by the same orange cat avatar.
“Human, ventilation shaft is faster.”
This time, the electronic voice was mixed with a soft purring. I pressed my ear against the door and heard a faint, scuttling sound from deep within the metal ducts of the building. It was followed by a dull thump—some clumsy idiot had clearly hit a corner.
When I opened the door, the orange cat had a cobweb stuck to its head and a single, wilted wildflower tucked into the side of its delivery box.
“Passed a garden. This, for human.”
It nudged the flower toward me with its paw, then turned, stumbling slightly on its back leg.
“Thank you, cat.”
I quietly gave five stars in the app. A series of paw print emojis automatically populated the comment box.
After that, I ordered a few more times, but they were all delivered by perfectly normal, human Dashers. I started to wonder if maybe I was just overworked, the stress manifesting as feline-centric hallucinations.
Then came the third weekend of the rainy season, the kind of downpour that bleeds the whole city into a blurry watercolor.
It was raining again.
Watching the sheets of water sluice down my window, a strange thought took root. The other times… it had been raining when I saw the orange cat.
Was it a special delivery service, a little cat that only worked for humans on rainy nights?
I placed another order.
By the time I saw the Spicy Cajun Crawfish order had been assigned to the orange cat, the clock had already ticked past one in the morning.
The electronic voice on the phone was choppy this time. “Human… overpass is flooded… can you…” The background was filled with the frantic meowing of other cats.
My heart seized.
I ran barefoot to the balcony. Through the curtain of rain, I could just make out a small orange blur leaping between the branches of the sycamore trees. The cat was clenching the delivery box in its teeth as it scaled a drainpipe, the rain forming a shimmering silver outline around its tiny body.
When it finally landed on my air conditioning unit, I saw that the fur on its neck was blown completely backwards by the wind, making it look like it was wearing an ill-fitting straw coat.
“Crawfish. Must be hot.”
As it pushed the box inside, its tail was so soaked the fur was matted into little clumps. I reached out to wipe a smudge of mud from its nose and my fingers brushed against a small, cold piece of metal.
Using my phone’s flashlight, I saw it was a small copper tag engraved with a crescent moon. On the back, in minuscule letters, it read: Rainy Night Covenant · Seventh Delivery Squad.
A rainy night…
So it was true. It only appeared when it rained.
Just then, the storm intensified. A violent gust of wind slammed a sheet of rain against the window. The orange cat’s ears shot up, and the copper tag emitted a faint blue glow.
It started pawing anxiously at the fire escape door, its voice turning sharp. “Alternate route is flooded. Seventeen orders will be late!”
It was the first time I had ever seen such a desperate look on a cat’s face. This job, whatever it was, was important to it.
That’s when I decided.
I slipped on my Crocs and grabbed an umbrella. “I’ll help you.”
The cat’s golden eyes widened in the darkness. It ducked its head and rubbed against my ankle, a surprising warmth seeping through my cotton socks.
“Human… you are good human.”
That night, we navigated the labyrinth of apartment buildings together. It led me to every hidden vent and secret cat-path, its paw pads leaving a trail of tiny, flower-shaped watermarks on the tiled floors.
When the last order, a hearty beef stew, was delivered, the crescent moon on its tag began to glow with a soft, pearly light. The orange cat sat in a puddle, looking up at the sky as the rain wove a luminous cocoon around its body.
I reached down and felt the scar on its hind leg. It was warm to the touch, and the moonlight seemed to be seeping into the fur like liquid silver. The joint effort of the night had made the cat trust me more than ever before.
“Why do you only come out during storms?” I asked softly.
The cat turned and nudged my arm with its head.
“Big rain, humans cannot cross big water. Many humans are still hungry.” It shook its head, its tail held high. “Humans and cats made the Rainy Night Covenant. When rain stops human delivery, the Cat Clans take orders through special paths.”
Finished with its explanation, it looked up at me. “Human, please give cat five stars.”
I smiled. Under the cat’s bright, expectant gaze, I gave it five stars and even added a small tip.
“No need for money, human.” The cat pawed at my phone. “Just stars for cat.”
It paused, then added, “The stars humans give… they can heal many wounds.”
The cat’s words were a little jumbled, but I understood. During the worst storms, a cat’s small body could slip through vents and hidden passages. When human drivers were stuck, the cats took on the task of feeding the hungry.
And the five-star ratings they received became a kind of energy, a magic that could heal their bodies.
As the cat’s silhouette vanished into the morning mist, my phone buzzed. A new notification from DashEats: Rainy Night Special Channel is now open. Would you like to subscribe to Cat Delivery?
Without a moment’s hesitation, I tapped ‘Yes.’
I hoped that the next time we met, the scar on its leg would be gone completely.
3
After grad school, I’d landed a city job right in my own neighborhood, a Community Liaison at the city council office. Mostly it was quiet, helping residents with their problems.
Lately, though, there had been a string of food delivery thefts in our complex. My supervisor, eager to offload the tedious work, assigned the case to me. Such is the life of a public servant; you can’t say no.
I was hunched over the security monitors in the management office when Art, one of the older security guards, shuffled over with his thermos of weak tea.
“Last month,” he said, pointing a wrinkled finger at a blurry orange shape on the screen, “I saw a calico cat, clear as day, dragging a delivery box out of a ventilation duct.” He squinted at me. “You think maybe it’s these strays? Weather’s been bad, maybe they’re snatching the food.”
“No, that’s not it,” I said, a little too quickly. The cats were the ones feeding people on those nights. The image of the little orange cat’s bright eyes, begging for stars, flashed in my mind.
Art just shrugged. It wasn’t really his problem. He went back to his chair and his thermos.
I stared at the grainy footage for another hour, getting nowhere. The tiny, fleeting shapes were impossible to track. This was an old complex, with ancient cameras, and any long-term resident knew exactly where the blind spots were. The thief had hit multiple times; they knew how to stay hidden.
If only… if only the cats could help me.
As if summoned by the thought, my phone vibrated. A special notification from DashEats: You have unlocked Rainy Night Covenant · Special Client privileges. The accompanying digital badge was the same crescent moon from the orange cat’s copper tag.
Then, a familiar scratching sound from the window sill.
The orange cat was perched outside the security grating, a brand-new blue ribbon tied around its neck. In its paws, it held a half-melted ice cream bar.
“Human. A thank-you gift.”
It turned its head away, a little bashfully, revealing the fluffy white fur where the blue ribbon was tied. That’s when I noticed it: the scar on its right hind leg was completely gone. In its place was a silvery, crescent-moon-shaped mark.
“Your leg is healed!” I said, my voice full of surprise.
The cat preened, puffing out its chest. “Cat is very punctual. Cat got many, many stars.”
I took the sticky ice cream bar and glanced back at Art. He was already dozing in his chair, a radio playing softly beside him. The life of a night guard was a slow one.
I turned back to the cat. “There’s a thief in the complex, stealing deliveries. Do you know anything about it?”
“Cat does not know.” It tilted its head, then nudged my phone with its paw. “Human is a Special Client now. You can post a commission in the app. Other cats might have seen something.”
“That’s a brilliant idea.”
My eyes lit up. I grabbed my phone and started typing out a commission notice, describing the situation. I set the reward for any useful information: two cans of premium tuna.
It wasn't long before a cat accepted the commission. A message appeared in the app’s chat. Human, bring the tuna to the west gate.
I bought a few cans of tuna and some cat treat sticks from the corner store and headed over.
It wasn't one cat waiting for me, but a whole crew.
Leading them was a beautifully marked calico, her movements sleek and confident. She padded right up to my feet. Behind her, an assortment of other cats watched me with curious eyes. She was clearly their leader.
I was glad I’d bought extra. I pulled the cans and treats from my bag.
The calico let out a soft meow but didn't touch the food. Instead, she took two steps in one direction, then looked back at me expectantly. She was telling me to follow.
No work, no pay. A cat of principle.
I packed the food away and followed her.
The group of cats led me to one of the residential buildings. A few years ago, during the pandemic, the complex had installed delivery lockers, but now that things were back to normal, nobody really used them. Since they’d installed new elevators that required a key card, most drivers just left packages on a rack next to the lockers for convenience. It was an unsecured, all-you-can-steal buffet.
Our timing was perfect. Just as we arrived, an old woman shuffled up to the rack. She glanced around furtively, then snatched a bag of food, ripping the receipt off and tossing it into a bush.
I recognized her. She lived in building 39. She was known for her loud voice and her tendency to throw herself on the ground and wail whenever things didn’t go her way. Most residents just avoided her.
I’d already started recording on my phone, capturing the whole thing. I would give it to my supervisor later.
The old woman turned and nearly ran right into me. Seeing me glance at the bag in her hand, she scowled. “What are you looking at? Get away from me.”
The cats, wary of her, had already melted back into the shrubbery.
I put on a pleasant smile. “Oh, nothing, ma’am. I was just going to put up a notice. You know how all that food has been going missing?”
A flicker of guilt crossed her face, but her voice boomed even louder. “What’s that got to do with me?”
I just smiled wider. “Nothing at all. It’s just, a resident told me yesterday that his delivery was stolen. He’d put rat poison in it, you see, for a pest problem. He was just so worried someone might have eaten it by mistake…”
“What?” The woman’s eyes went wide. She spun around and sprinted toward her building. “My grandson—!”
That night, I heard the entire family had made a trip to the emergency room to have their stomachs pumped.
I passed out the cans of tuna.
The calico leader gracefully accepted her reward. “Thank you, human.”
I smiled. “You earned it.”
4
The rainy season was in full swing.
I was seeing the cats more often than ever. Sometimes it was my little orange friend, sometimes a human Dasher. Occasionally, a new cat would show up at my door.
Over time, I started to notice a pattern. The later I placed my order, the higher the chance a cat would deliver it.
The orange cat, Rusty, was the one I knew best. If I ordered something he liked, he’d hop right into my lap for a moment.
“Human, cat is fat. Climbing stairs… makes hungry.”
I’d scratch the scruff of his neck, which had definitely gotten thicker, and marvel at the universal truth of chubby orange cats. I’d share a few bites of my dinner, and then he’d be off, delivery box in mouth, to his next stop.
Sometimes, a black-and-white cow cat would deliver. They were usually… a bit neurotic. I’d get messages from them periodically: Human, one moment.
I’d reply: Is there a problem?
Cow Cat: No. Dueling with a Meow Squad rider.
I would just sigh.
The beautiful and elegant calico, Cleo, would sometimes bring my food. She would give my hand a dignified rub, a gentle reminder to leave a good review.
“Human, cat has many little ones to feed. Thank you for your stars.”
Thinking of the kittens I’d seen her with, I would mindlessly smash the five-star button under the spell of her grace.
The most responsible delivery cat was a tabby named Ash. He was lightning-fast and would even take my trash out for me on his way down. If I happened to order from a place with questionable hygiene, Ash would stand at my door and inform me, “Human, this place is not clean.”
I’d scratch his head. “Thanks, Ash. I won’t order from there again.”
Good cat. Bad restaurant.
The most athletic was a pure white cat I called Ghost. One evening, I was working late at a client’s office across town. I was on the 30th floor when a tapping sound came from the window beside me. It was Ghost, a white blur against the night sky.
I nearly had a heart attack.
“Ghost! How did you get up this high?”
He just looked at me. “Human, cat is very skilled.”
I quickly slid the window open and pulled him inside. “Yes, yes, you are. All you cats are amazing.”
“...Not all.” Ghost tilted his head, thinking. “Rusty could not climb this. Too… fluffy.”
“Hey, don't say that about the little guy.”
Thanks to my Special Client status, I’d become well-acquainted with every delivery cat in a multi-mile radius. Sometimes, on my way to work, a cat would proudly present me with a freshly caught mouse.
My hand would tremble as I accepted it. “Thank you, cat. But please, not again.”
The rainy season was almost over.
I was having a late-night snack at a 24-hour convenience store when Cleo, the calico leader, suddenly leaped onto the table beside me. She was wearing a tiny, reflective safety vest, and her tail was curled around a digital thermometer.
“Human,” she said, her voice urgent. “Cat needs your help.”
First, search for and download the MotoNovel app from Google. Then, open the app and use the code "262942" to read the entire book.
MotoNovel
Novellia
Bookworm« Previous Post
So Much For That
Next Post »
Her Fiancé is My Revenge