5November2025
My dear diary,
Yesterday my daughter Ethel arrived for the weekend, her eyes widening as she asked, Dad, have you taken in a cat? I stared out the kitchen window, irked, watching that ginger feline lounging on my strawberry rows for the third day in a row. First it ate the tomatoes, then it curled up among the cucumbers, and today it claimed a patch of young cabbage as its throne.
Go back to your owners, I muttered, tapping the glass. The cat lifted its yellow eyes and sat there, brazen as ever.
I slipped on my rubber boots and trudged into the garden. The beast didnt bolt; it shuffled a few steps and perched beside the fencethin, ragged, an ear torn, tail in knots.
Whats the story, little rogue? I crouched among the cabbage, inspecting the damage. Probably no one will take you home now? The cat let out a plaintive, quiet meow. I realised then how famished it was; its gaunt frame sparked a fire in my eyes.
Where are your owners? I asked, sitting on my heels.
The animal padded closer, rubbing against my boot, purring softly as if to thank me for not shooing it away.
My lad, why does a cat live in our garden? asked my grandson Simon, who had come for a holiday break.
It belongs to the neighbours. Got lost or dumpedI dont know, I replied.
Whose cat was it?
A sigh escaped me. It had belonged to Mrs. Hannah Semmens from the cottage next door. She passed away a month ago; relatives came only for the funeral, locked the house, cleared out the furniture, and forgot the cat.
It was Mrs. Hannahs, I said. Shes gone now.
And the cat?
Still here.
Simon looked at the ginger wanderer with sympathy. Granddad, can we keep it?
Hell no! I snapped. Im not short of cats already. Ive barely got enough to eat myself, let alone a pet.
Yet that evening, after Simon drove back to the city, I placed a bowl of leftover soup by the front step. The cat crept forward, ate greedily, and vanished.
Fine, I muttered, just this once. That once turned into a daily ritual. Each morning the cat waited patiently at the garden gate; it never mewed or begged, just waited.
At first I fed it scraps. Then I started boiling porridge and buying cheap tins of fish, telling myself it was only temporary until the cat found a new home.
Rusty, come here, Id call. Or whatever Mrs. Hannah called you. The cat responded to any name, as long as it was spoken.
Soon Rusty settled in. He basked in the sun by the vegetable beds, returned to the porch at dusk, and slept in the old dog kennel that still stood in the shed.
Just temporary, I kept repeating. Absolutely temporary. Weeks passed and Rusty never left. I realised Id grown accustomed to his orange mug, his soft purrs at night, the warm lap he claimed when I sat on the porch.
Ethel, still stunned, asked again, Dad, why keep him? Find him a proper home.
Its not my cat, I replied, scratching his ear. Let him live.
Isnt that wasteful? Food, vet bills your pension is modest, she warned.
Well manage, I answered shortly.
She shook her head. Lately Father had become oddtalking to his plants, now rescuing stray cats.
Maybe you should move to the city, live with us? she suggested again. Youre alone here.
Not aloneRustys here, I said.
She sighed. Since Mums death Id withdrawn, stubborn and solitary.
In autumn Rusty fell ill. He stopped eating, lay limp in the kennel, breathing shallowly. I sat beside him, worried as for a son.
Whats wrong, old friend? I whispered. He let out a weak meow. I took him to the local vet in the town centre, draining most of my state pension on treatment, but I had no regrets.
The cats fine, the young doctor said. Smart, gentle. Just old, immune system weak.
Will he survive?
If you look after him, yes. Just keep him comfortable and on his meds.
Back home I set up a little infirmary on the veranda: old blankets, bowls, daily pills, temperature checks.
Get better, I urged. Lifes dull without you.
Those months turned Rusty from a stray into a true companion, the only being who greeted me each day, whose purr chased away the silence.
Simon, back for his winter break, asked, Granddad, is Rusty getting better?
Hes fine now, I said, pointing to his curled form on the warm cushion. His fur shone, eyes clear.
Will he stay forever?
Where else would he go? I patted his side. Were in this together. He gives me company; I give him a home.
Did you ever feel lonely, Granddad?
I thought of the empty house since my wife died, cooking soup for one, the silent TV, the cold bed. Very lonely, my dear, I admitted. Now it isnt.
Simon nodded; he too cherished the solace a pet can bring.
What does Mum think? I asked.
Shed say its an unnecessary expense, he replied.
And you?
I think its worth it. Rusty brings me joy, and joy isnt a waste.
Spring brought an unexpected visitor: Svetla, Hannahs niece, with a small child.
Granddad, sorry to intrude, she said. Im Svetla, Hannahs niece. I heard your cat lives here?
My heart thudded. Could they take Rusty away?
Hes here, I answered cautiously. What do you need?
We left quickly after the funeral, didnt think about the cat. We feel ashamed now and want to bring him back, she explained, eyes scanning the garden where Rusty lounged.
I understand, I said, feeling a tightness in my chest.
Are you fed up with him? Too much trouble? she asked.
No, hes a fine cat, I replied.
Svetla approached Rusty, who lifted his head, studied the strangers, then trotted back to me, rubbing his head against my shoe.
Strange, she remarked. He doesnt seem to recognise me. I used to visit Aunt Hannah often.
Time changes things, I said. He probably just forgot.
She seemed to realise something deeper. Maybe he could stay with you? Hes used to the garden, to you.
How? I asked, bewildered.
We live in a flat with a toddler. Hes old, loves the outdoors. Moving him would be cruel, she said. Hes yours now, in a way. You saved him from hunger, then from illness. He belongs to you.
I could hardly believe my ears. Really? He can stay?
Of course. If you ever need food or medicine, let us know. Well help.
When Svetla left, I lingered on the porch, stroking Rustys fur.
Stay with me, old friend. Forever, I whispered.
That night Ethel called.
Dad, is the cat alright?
Hes alive. In fact, hes officially mine now. The owners came, but they let him stay.
Good, she said. If hes become accustomed
Ethel, you know what Ive learned? I asked.
What?
A lonely man and a lonely cat rescue each other. I saved him from starvation; he saved me from solitude.
Dont get all philosophical, Dad
Im not philosophising, Im stating the truth. I now have purposemorning meals, meds, a purr at the gate. It gives me meaning.
She was silent, perhaps finally seeing why I needed Rusty.
Dad, are you really not moving to the city? she asked.
Never. I have everything herehouse, garden, Rusty. Why would I trade this for city hustle?
Alright then, youre staying.
Staying, indeed. Were staying.
A year has passed. Rusty and I keep a measured rhythm: breakfast, a stroll through the beds, chores, a nap in the shade, dinner, TV, Rusty on my lap. Neighbours now comment, Peter, your cat has become quite the lapdog!
Its not my cat, I reply. Were each others.
The truth is, we rescued one anotheran old widower and a stray cat no one else wanted. In each other we found understanding, warmth, and a reason to get up each day.
What more does one need for happiness? Rustys soft purr on my knee and the knowledge that I didnt chase away that hungry wanderer. Sometimes the biggest decisions arent made with the head, but with the heart, and they turn out to be the right ones.
