The Striped Guardian of the Square
In this square, everything was on display: windows faced each other, children knew not just their neighbours’ names but their habits too, and the adults kept track of who left and returned home when. By late September, the grass still clung to its green, though mornings left it flattened under the weight of heavy dew. Come evening, voices filled the airboys kicked a football between the kerbs, girls played “shop” on the bench beneath the old chestnut tree. Between them, moving with the quiet certainty of one following a well-worn map, appeared the cat: large, striped, with white paws and a white patch on her chest. She belonged to no one, yet everyone knew herMarmalade, or simply the Cat.
The children treated her like a living charm: some brought scraps of ham from home, others stroked her back or whispered secrets to her beneath the sigh of the wind. The women, too, were fond of hersome left bowls of food by the buildings entrance, others invited her into the porch on stormy nights. Even newcomers, still learning the squares unspoken rules, soon noticedwithout the Cat, something vital was missing from the daily bustle.
But there was one familymother to a boy named Alfie and his fatherwho saw the Cat differently: with suspicion, even irritation. The mother often muttered aloud:
“Its dangerous! Who knows what germs she carries Strays are unpredictable!”
The father would silently agree with a glance or a sigh; he rarely weighed in on animal matters. Their fears were simple: cleanliness came first, and a child should play without risk of catching something “from the streets.”
Alfie stole glances at the Cat when his parents werent looking. If his mother caught him, hed look away or pretend to be occupied with his toy cars. But the moment their backs were turned, hed follow the Cat to the flowerbeds or wait for her by the sandpit.
Evenings transformed the square. The sun dipped swiftly behind the rooftops, the pavement cooling. Children lingered late, as if summer hadnt quite leftyet the air grew sharp after sunset, pulling jackets tighter and hands deeper into sleeves.
The Cat knew everyone in the square. She responded only to certain voices or footsteps. If Alfie called softly from behind the bushes, she approached cautiously. If Mrs. Eleanor tapped a spoon against a bowl by the door, she appeared faster than any other stray in the neighbourhood.
Life moved as usual: mornings saw schoolchildren vanish around the corner with backpacks slung over shoulders, afternoons left toddlers and grandparents by the sandpit, and evenings gathered everyone together under the glow of the first-floor windows.
Sometimes, Alfies mother tried to persuade the other women about the dangers of strays:
“No one knows if shes carrying diseases! If only she were a proper house cat”
But the women only shrugged:
“Shes harmless! We keep an eye on her.”
“Without her, wed be overrun with mice!”
The conversation always faded, leaving opinions unchanged.
This continued until one late September evening. The day had been damp after rain, the pavement drying by afternoon, though puddles still caught window reflections between the paving stones. Chestnut leaves yellowed noticeably, a pile already swept beneath the swings by the wind.
Alfie played near the building with two older girls and ones younger brother. The Cat lay nearby on the warm concrete kerb by the entranceshe always sought the warmest spots as evening fell.
Then, from the direction of the garages, came a low, rough barkonce, twice, then a rapid third. The children froze by the swings; even the adults by the door turned at once.
A dog lunged around the corner: a large black mongrel with a torn collar, fur bristling with tension. It moved sharply, as if searching for someone among the squares residents.
Alfie stood frozen, then stepped behind the older girl.
“Dont worry Itll go away”
But the dog advanced too quickly. The children backed toward the building, calling for the adults. Alfies mother rushed out first:
“Come here!”
She sprinted toward her son across the rain-damp grass. His father, still in the kitchen, hadnt yet noticed the danger.
Then, without warning, the Cat launched forwardlow to the ground, straight at the dog, so fast even the adults hesitated at the sudden movement. The dogs focus snapped from the children. It bared its teeth and chased the Cat past the sandpit, through the bushes along the garage wallbeyond the reach of the streetlight.
The boy was safe. The dog vanished around the corner with its quarry, leaving the children trembling, staring after the striped guardian.
Alfies mother held him tight, feeling his heart hammer beneath his jacket.
“Its alright Its alright”
But no one saw where the Cat went after that desperate dashtoo quick for even the sharpest eyes to follow.
As dusk settled and the square quieted, the children searched for herby the benches, under cars, along the shrubs where she used to sit. Boys peered beneath parked cars; adults shone phone torches into dark corners, calling her name.
Beneath the thick lilac bush where leaves gathered after the wind, Alfie spotted her firstthe striped flank, the twisted posture, the white patch of her belly trembling faintly against the dew-wet grass. She breathed heavily, blinking slowly, eyes half-lidded. A circle formed around herchildren, then kneeling adults. No one dared touch her at first, fingers stiff with cold until Mrs. Eleanor carefully lifted her, swaddled in a jacket to avoid the wound.
In the flat where Mrs. Eleanor took her, neighbours crowded in. Alfies mother held his shoulders, keeping him back but not looking away. His father stood aside, phone in hand, searching for the nearest vet.
The Cat lay curled on an old towel, wound tight as possible. The gash on her side wasnt deep but long, fur matted with blood and damp. The women found iodine, bandages, and cotton wool; someone set a water bowl nearby. As some cleaned the wound, others murmured about vets and whether any were open so late.
Alfie watched wide-eyedhed never seen the adults so focused on a creature not their own. Even his mother, usually so stern about strays, now held the Cats paw gently to keep her still.
“Hold firm Just be careful” she murmured to herself.
The room smelled of wet fur and iodine. Outside, night had fully fallen. Alfies father slipped into the hallway and returned with a clean bedsheet, spreading it beside the towel.
“The vets taking walk-ins first thing tomorrow,” he said quietly to his wife.
“Thank you”
For the first time, her voice held something newacknowledgment that this stray cat needed their help. The moment bound them faster than words could.
“Lets take her home tonight,” he suggested. “Well go to the vet early.”
She nodded.
Carefully, they transferred the Cat, towel and all, onto the sheet and carried her to their flat.
The night passed restlessly. Alfie lay awake, listening for any sound from the next room. Every rustle might mean a change in the Cats state. His mother checked on her oftenadjusting the towel, refreshing the water.
Morning came early, before dawn. The kettle hissed in the kitchen; his father sliced bread soundlessly. The Cat lay still, eyes half-open. When Alfie reached to stroke her head, her ears twitched, and she gave a faint mewlalmost like thanks.
The vet visit was quick. Mrs. Eleanor came too. The wound wasnt life-threatening, the vet said, but needed time to heala few days of rest under watch. They left with antiseptic instructions, a soft diet, and a handout on first aid for strays”just in case.”
Back home, duties were divided: his mother kept the Cats space clean, his father brought fresh water and food, even Alfie helped change the bandages under supervision. Neighbours visited, bringing treats or drawings.
Days melted into evenings seamlessly. Outside, darkness fell fast, but inside, a peculiar calm lingeredthe kind after shared hardship or celebration, where everyone feels needed. Marmalade recovered steadily: eating from Alfies hand, allowing strokes, sometimes padding to the door as if testing the limits of this new refuge.
Within days, she improved faster than expected. The wound dried, her appetite returned, her movements grew sure.
One crisp autumn evening, his mother opened the window wide to air the roomand the Cat stepped onto the sill, pausing by her water bowl to gaze outside, as if memorising the squares every scent.
“Maybe we should let her go,” his mother said, no longer anxious but soft, like releasing an old friend after a long visit.
His father nodded. Even Alfie understood without explanation.
Marmalade leapt lightly from the silllanding on the dry grass below before vanishing into the lilacs evening shadows, right where theyd found her after the fight.
By morning, the square buzzed again. Children scanned the flowerbeds, the bench beneath the chestnut tree. When she appeared near the sandpit at midday, they rushed to greet her; women smiled across the square, sharing something wordless.
Even Alfies family treated her differently nowhis mother left food by the door, his father spotted her first from the kitchen window, and Alfie no longer hid his affection when he stroked her or played nearby.
The Cat remained the squares sovereignfree as ever, but now everyone knew the value of her presence. No one argued about “cleanliness” or strays anymore. Theyd witnessed the small miracle of how one striped creature had united a whole neighbourhood to save a lifeperhaps the most fragile in this vast world.
