At the behest of friends and family, the lonely man tried to fall in love. He created a dating profile. A few messages trickled in, mostly bots, but he couldn't care enough even to be disappointed, couldn't will himself into desire that was never there. 
2020 hit the world like a tsunami. The song of the summer was the mechanical trill of Zoom calls and drone of mortality statistics. Handshakes, sexual liaisons, and skin-on-skin were whispered among the populace like a shared dream longing to be re-lived. 
The world was finally as lonely as the lonely man, but it was no substitute for the simple touch he ached for.  
One night that impossibly hot summer, as he browsed Facebook, he saw a post that froze his idly scrolling fingers.  
It read: 
Dearest friends, I'm pleased to inform you that tomorrow, I'm becoming a cat. If you see me around, please say hello. I don't bite.  
The poster hadn't been online in three months.  
Pictures of a tartan collar and tag were attached, zoomed in so her personal information and vet's number were visible. The hyperlink directed readers to a multipage letter detailing her reasons for turning: loneliness, searing distaste for customer service, enjoying sushi, a lifelong love of cats, and a simple desire to be touched.  
The lonely man stared, stunned, at the screen. He felt understood and violated, an artist examining a perfect forgery of his work, for he too harbored a fascination with turning into cats since childhood–a fascination he hid as soon as it was discovered. 
The comments section brimmed with all-caps ire aimed, not at her, but the Morf subreddit, so he went there next.  
The subreddit's pinned post linked to a drive stuffed with files like "How to Know if You're a Morf" and "Morfing Guide," totalling nearly 200 pages.  
Blue dawn peaked through the blinds as he finished reading.  
A match was struck in the depths of his soul, the urge to act rising within him. 
Tomorrow.  
... 
A scratching post, a bowl of cat food, and a climbing tree stood in the man's living room. 
A letter of resignation appeared in his boss' inbox. "I'm pleased to inform you," it began. 
He clipped on a snug, tartan collar, then curled up into a tiny cat bed.  
Purring sounds from a morfing hypnotism video lulled him into deep sleep. 
... 
Drops of water pinged in the bathroom sink.  
The lonely man sat on the sink's edge, staring into the mirror at himself: a tuxedo cat with a drop of white on his nose. White whiskers sprouted from his lips. Pale hairs dotted his face. Salt and pepper. Middle age directly translated into feline form. Not that he minded; he preferred cat whiskers to human ones. 
The lonely man–no, the tom padded out to the kitchen, leapt effortlessly onto the windowsill, out the open window, and into the front yard. 
His collar clinked as he trotted down the quiet street. 
Light bent through his new feline eyes, which stripped the world of its warmest shades, sending it awash in blue.  
Smells were loud, each one a voice in a crowded room. He stopped at every grassy tussock to untangle the scents. He marked a tree for the first time. A satisfying sensation, like sneezing and stealing simultaneously.  
An intriguing scent trail led to a community garden, where a clowder of cats lay, each sprawled on the sunbaked soil of a raised bed. 
He meowed a greeting. They flicked their ears lazily in response.  
He cautiously approached a tortie. A curious scent wafted from her, a mixture of earth, dandruff, and...detergent? She wore a tartan collar he'd seen on the subreddit. 
The tom's tail twitched excitedly at the discovery.  
There was an older tabby who wore no collar, so he leaned in to gather his scent and determine whether he was also a morf. The tabby swatted his nose, None of your business.  
That week, the tuxedo tom closely watched the clowder, learning everything that couldn't be done by instinct alone. 
The cats got used to the tom. He claimed a bed of his own. 
Bright nights and days blended together. 
Each gardener gave him a different name they thought suited him and petted him often, their fingertips playing sensory melodies on his fur. The tom purred under the simple touch. He'd been touched more in a month than the past forty years.  
What did his family think? His coworkers? What of possessions and reputation?  
He didn't care.  
The problems of his former humanity dissolved in the garden. 
... 
One day, a woman stopped by as the clowder ate from food bowls the old gardeners provided. She bent down and angled the tortie's tag up to read it. Suddenly, she kicked the tortie in the ribs.  
She yowled in pain and shock, bounding away in a blur. The clowder turned on their heels to escape similar punishment.  
Tracking her scent led to a hedge she'd tucked herself under. She lay lopsided, mewling pitifully. He smelled blood and something else ill inside her belly.  
He brought her mice, until one night, she vanished, and her scent trail ran cold.  
The gardeners stopped naming the cats, stopped leaving food and petting them.  
One by one, the cats disappeared.  
He followed the smell of kibble, found it nested in a cage.  
He ate a mouse that twisted his stomach into tight, sharp knots. Reluctantly, he left the garden, stumbling to the vet.  
"We can't treat you for free," the receptionist explained after reading his collar. "The shelter can, but since you're feral, they're gonna neuter. Doesn't matter that you're, you know..." She trailed off. "If you've got insurance, you should switch back for treatment."  
The tom limped to his mother's house. She didn't seem happy to see him, but permitted him to sleep in the guest bedroom, beside a change of clothes.  
Morning chill pressed against his fur-less skin like cold marble. Mother sat in the kitchen. When he accidentally meowed hello in his gravelly voice, she shook her head.  
... 
The lonely man sat on a bench in the garden, staring at the empty beds.  
A woman in a coat approached, sat on the bench with difficulty, and sighed.  
The brisk wind shifted, pushing a familiar scent toward him. Detergent.  
The man felt her scrutinize him. Then, she meowed hello. 
"It's you," he said. "What happened?"  
"Broken rib," she explained. "You?"  
"Ate a poisoned mouse. Had to get my stomach pumped."  
"Jesus. When'll you morf back?" 
"Well, I want to but...it's dangerous right now."  
"I'm morfing back as soon as I'm healed." 
"Oh," he said, surprised. 
There was a pause.  
"I miss being petted," he admitted because she'd understand. Now that he was human, the ache for touch was creeping back. 
"Me, too."  
She squeezed his hand, lightly easing the ache. 
Suddenly, the tabby tom emerged from a bush, sniffing the morfs intently. 
She petted him, fingers playing the right notes on his fur.  
"I'll pet you," said the lonely tom. "And feed you. Both of you. I promise."  
The woman smiled at him, and the tabby meowed a thank you.