Fostering Oreo, and Why I Nearly Kept Him

I'm nineteen, so when the rescue group asked if I could foster a cat for a few weeks, my mum said yes before I could think. That's how Oreo arrived: a nearly three-year-old mixed-breed boy with a black and white coat, one slightly torn ear, and no interest whatsoever in being a polite guest. For the first three days he hid under my bed and came out only at night to eat. On day four he discovered the fridge door, and the fridge door discovered him back, and we became friends. Now he sits on my keyboard during every online lecture, which my lecturers find charming and I find less so. The coordinator asked me to keep notes on his health, his litter habits and how he gets on with other animals. Oreo likes to sit by the gate and stare at the neighbour's dog, which I'm told is a good sign. He also learned that the crinkle of a plastic bag means treats, so now he sprints to the kitchen every time I come home from the supermarket in Muang Korat. Our foster period ends next month. I have already started looking at the adoption form, which I was told not to fill out yet. Oreo, don't tell anyone. Please.