Dad, have you taken in a cat? Lucy asked, astonished as she arrived for the weekend.
Peter Watson stared irately out the kitchen window. There, again, sat the ginger tom on his vegetable beds the third day in a row.
At first he had gnawed the tomatoes, yesterday he slept among the cucumbers, and today he made himself at home on the young cabbage.
Maybe you should go back to your owners, the old man muttered, tapping the glass.
The cat lifted its head, met his gaze with yellow eyes, and remained seated, utterly brazen.
Peter pulled on his rubber boots and stepped into the garden. The cat didnt bolt; it shuffled a few steps away and settled by the fence. Thin, ragged, an ear torn, tail knotted.
What a scrounger, Peter said, crouching beside the cabbage, inspecting the damage. Looks like youve got nowhere to go now, eh?
The cat let out a plaintive, barely audible meow. In that instant Peter realised the creature was starving. Its gaunt eyes burned with hunger.
Where are your owners? he asked, sitting on his haunches.
The cat padded closer, rubbing against his boot, purring softly as if to thank him for not shooing it away.
Granddad, why does a cat live in our yard? asked his grandson Tommy, who had come for a holiday at the cottage.
It belongs to the neighbours. Got lost or was tossed out Im not sure.
Whose was it, then?
Peter sighed. He knew the answer. Mrs. Hannah Whitfield from the house next door had passed away a month earlier; relatives only came for the funeral, then locked the house and cleared out everything. The cat had simply been forgotten.
She was Annies cat. Annies gone now.
And the cat was left alone?
Exactly.
Tommy looked at the ginger wanderer with sympathy.
Granddad, could we keep him?
Never! Peter snapped. Ive barely got enough to eat myself, and now you want to add a mouth to feed?
That evening, after Tommy had left for the city, Peter carried a bowl of leftover soup to the cat and set it on the porch. The cat crept forward cautiously, then began to eat greedily, gulping down the broth.
Fine, Peter muttered, once wont hurt.
That once turned into every day. At dawn the cat waited by the gate, sitting patiently, never meowing or begging, just watching.
At first Peter fed him scraps, then started cooking porridge and buying cheap tins, telling himself it was only temporary, until the cat found new owners.
Come here, ginger, he called. What did Mrs. Hannah call you, I wonder?
The cat answered to any name; it only mattered that he was called.
Gradually the ginger settled in. He basked in the sun among the rows, returned to the porch each evening, and slept in the old dogs kennel that still stood in the shed.
Just temporary, Peter kept repeating. Totally temporary.
Weeks passed and the cat never left. Peter realised the ginger had become a habit the familiar whiskered face at the gate, the soft purrs at dusk, the warm lap that sometimes slipped onto his knees while he watched television.
Dad, have you really taken in a cat? Lucy asked again, surprised.
No, he came on his own. He belonged to the neighbours; the lady is dead
Then why feed him? Find him somewhere else.
Who needs an old cat anyway? Peter scratched behind the gingers ear. Let him stay.
Dad, thats an unnecessary expense. Food, vet bills youre on a modest pension.
Well manage, Peter replied shortly.
Lucy shook her head. In recent years her father had become odd talking to his plants, now rescuing stray cats.
Maybe you should move to the city, come live with us? she suggested once more. Why stay here alone?
Hes not alone. The cats here.
Dad, seriously?
Im serious. This is fine for us. We have the garden, we have the cat.
Lucy sighed. Speaking with her father had become difficult; he was stubborn, withdrawn after his wifes death.
In autumn the ginger fell ill. He stopped eating, lay in the kennel, breathing shallowly. Peter sat beside him, worried as if for a child.
Whats wrong, old friend? he whispered. Are you sick?
The cat let out a weak meow. Peter took him to the veterinary practice in the nearby town, spending almost his entire pension on treatment, but he didnt regret it.
The cat is goodnatured, but hes old and his immunity is weak, the young vet said. If you look after him, he can have a few more months. Just keep him comfortable and give the medicine.
At home Peter set up a little infirmary on the veranda: old blankets, bowls of food and water, daily pills, temperature checks.
Get better, he urged. Life would be dull without you.
It was true. Over the months the ginger became more than a pet; he became a companion, the only living being that greeted Peter each morning and kept him company at night.
Granddad, has Ginger recovered? Tommy asked during his winter break.
Hes fine. See, hes sleeping on his cushion.
The cat lay curled on a warm pad, his fur glossy, eyes bright.
Will he stay here forever?
Where else could he go? Peter stroked the ginger. Were together. He gives me company, I give him a home.
Did you ever feel lonely, Granddad?
Peter thought of the empty house after his wife died, cooking soup for one, watching a silent TV, lying down in a quiet bedroom.
Yes, my dear. Very lonely.
And now?
Now Im not. The ginger greets me when I return from the garden, purrs while Im cooking, sleeps on my knees while I watch the telly. Its better.
Tommy nodded. He too loved animals and understood how they could fill an emptiness.
Granddad, what does Mum think?
Shed say its a waste, extra trouble.
And you?
Not a waste at all. The ginger brings me joy, and joy isnt a waste.
In spring an unexpected visitor arrived the niece of the late Mrs. Hannah, a young woman with a small child.
Grandfather, sorry to bother you, she said. Im Sophie, Hannahs niece. I heard your cat is still living here?
Peters heart lurched. Would they take the ginger away?
Yes, he lives here, he replied cautiously. What about it?
We only realised after the funeral we left him behind. It feels wrong not to bring him home.
Peter felt a tightness in his chest.
Youre probably tired of caring for him? she asked.
Not at all. Hes a fine cat.
Sophie looked out to the garden where the ginger lounged in the sun beside the rows.
Hes changed so much! He was so thin and sick, now hes a beauty.
I treated him, fed him well.
Thank you so much! Well take him, of course, and cover any costs
Peter fell silent. Legally the cat belonged to Hannahs family, but in his mind the ginger had become part of his own life.
May we see him? Sophie asked.
They approached the cat. He lifted his head, stared at the strangers, then padded over to Peter, rubbing against his legs.
Strange, Sophie remarked. He doesnt recognise me. I used to visit Aunt Annie often.
Time passes, Peter said. Hes probably forgotten.
But Peter understood it wasnt forgetfulness; the cat had simply chosen a new master the one who fed him, healed him, loved him.
Perhaps he could stay with you? Sophie suggested suddenly. Hes grown used to you, and youve grown attached to him.
What do you mean? Peter asked, puzzled.
We live in a flat with a small baby. The cat is old, used to the freedom of the country. Moving would distress him.
But hes ours.
He was Aunt Annies. Now hes yours too. You rescued him twice first from hunger, then from illness. He belongs to you as much as to us.
Peter could hardly believe his luck.
Really? He can stay?
Of course. If you ever need food or medicine, just let us know. Well help.
After Sophie left, Peter sat on the porch, petting the ginger.
Did you hear that, mate? Youre staying with me. Forever.
The cat purred, eyes halfclosed in contentment.
That evening Lucy called.
Dad, hows the cat? Is he alive?
Hes alive, and officially mine now. The owners came, but they let him stay.
Good. Hes gotten used to you, after all
Lucy, you know what Ive realized?
Whats that?
A lonely person and a lonely cat save each other. I rescued him from starvation; he rescued me from solitude.
Dad, stop being philosophical
Im not philosophising, Im speaking the truth. I now have a purpose to feed him, give his medicine, hear his purrs at the gate each morning.
Lucy was silent, perhaps finally understanding why the cat meant so much to her father.
Dad, are you sure you wont move in with us?
Never. I have everything here the house, the garden, the ginger. Why would I trade it for city hustle?
Alright, then youll stay.
Ill stay. Well stay.
Another year passed. Peter and the ginger lived a measured life: breakfast and a stroll through the garden each morning, chores by day, the cat napping in the shade, dinner and television in the evening with the cat curled on his lap.
Neighbours grew used to seeing them together.
Peter, your cat has become quite tame!
Hes not just a cat. Were one.
And that was true. They had rescued each other an old solitary man and an unwanted old cat and found in each other what they both needed: understanding, warmth, a reason to get up each day.
What else is needed for happiness?
The ginger purrs on his masters knees, and Peter thinks how grateful he is that he didnt chase the hungry stray away. Sometimes the most important decisions arent made with the mind, but with the heart, and they turn out to be the right ones.
