Father, have you taken in a cat? the daughter, Evelyn, asked, her voice trembling as she stepped onto the old stone porch for a weekend visit.
Peter Whitaker stared irritably out of the kitchen window. There it was again: the ginger cat perched on his vegetable rows, a third day in a row.
At first it chewed the tomatoes, yesterday it napped among the cucumbers, and today it simply claimed the young cabbages as a throne.
You ought to go back to your owners, the old man muttered, tapping the glass with his knuckles.
The cat lifted its amber eyes, stared, and lingered with an insolent air.
Peter pulled on his rubber boots and trudged into the garden. The cat didnt flee; it shuffled a few steps away and settled beside the fence, a gaunt, ragclad creature with a torn ear and a tail frayed at the tip.
Whats the story, little wanderer? Peter crouched by the cabbage, surveying the damage. Youve been out all night, havent you? No ones taking you home now?
The cat let out a weak mew. In that moment Peter understood: the animal was starving, its eyes suddenly flamed with pleading.
Where are your owners? he asked, sitting on his heels.
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, Archie, who had arrived for a holiday at the cottage.
It belongs to the neighbour. Lost, maybe thrown out I dont know.
Whose was it?
Peter sighed. He knew. It had belonged to Mrs. Hannah Bennett from the house next door. She had died a month ago, and her relatives had only come for the funeral. The house was locked up, its contents cleared, and the cat had been forgotten.
It was Grandmother Annas cat. Shes gone now.
So the cat was left alone?
Yes.
Archie looked at the ginger vagabond with pity.
Granddad, can we keep it?
Of course not! Peter snapped. I barely have enough to keep myself fed, and now you want to add a mouth to the mix?
That night, after Archie had gone back to the city, Peter finally placed a shallow bowl of soup remnants on the doorstep. He stepped back, and the cat crept forward, gulping greedily, its tiny paws trembling.
Fine, Peter muttered, just once
Just once stretched into every sunrise. Each morning the cat waited patiently at the gate, never meowing, never begging, simply anticipating.
At first Peter fed it scraps; then he began boiling a simple porridge and buying cheap tins, telling himself it was only temporary, until the cat found new owners.
Ginger, come here, he called. Ill call you by any name; what did Mrs. Bennett call you anyway?
The cat responded to every syllable, as long as it heard a voice.
Gradually Ginger settled in. By day it basked in the sun over the rows, by dusk it slipped onto the porch, sleeping in an old dogs kennel left behind.
Its only temporary, Peter repeated, though the weeks turned into months and the cat never left. He grew accustomed to the orange muzzle at the gate, the soft evening purrs, the warm lap that sometimes rose to meet him as he watched television.
Father, have you taken in a cat? Evelyn asked again, eyebrows raised.
I didnt take it in. It came of its own accord. The neighbours lady passed on
Then why feed it? Find it somewhere else.
Who needs an old cat, anyway? Peter scratched behind Gingers ear. Let it stay.
Father, its an unnecessary expense. Food, vet bills your pension is already modest.
Well manage, he answered shortly.
Evelyn shook her head. Her father had become odd latelytalking to the plants, now rescuing stray cats.
Maybe you should move to the city, live with us? Why stay alone out here?
Im not alone. Gingers here.
Seriously
Im serious. This place, the garden, the cat its enough for me.
Evelyn sighed. Since their mothers death, her father had withdrawn, stubborn and closed off.
In autumn Ginger fell ill, stopped eating, and lay listlessly in the kennel, breathing shallowly. Peter sat beside it, worry creasing his forehead.
Whats wrong, friend? he whispered. Are you sick?
The cat let out a faint mew. Peter, determined, drove Ginger to the local veterinary practice in the nearby town, spending almost his entire pension on treatment, yet feeling no regret.
Hes a good cat, the young vet said. Smart, gentle. Just old, with a weak immune system.
Will he live?
With proper care, he can make it through. Just keep him warm and give the medicine.
Back home, Peter set up a makeshift infirmary on the veranda: old blankets, bowls of food and water, daily pills, temperature checks.
Get better, he coaxed. Life would be dull without you.
And indeed, over the following weeks the cat transformed from a frail stray into a robust companion, the only living being that genuinely welcomed Peters return each evening.
Granddad, has Ginger recovered? Archie asked during a winter break.
Hes fine. Look, hes sleeping on his little cushion.
Ginger lay curled, fur glossy, eyes bright.
Will he stay here forever?
Where else could he go? Peter stroked the cats soft side. Were a pair now. He gives me company; I give him a home.
Did you ever feel lonely before? Archie probed.
Peter thought of the empty house after his wifes death, solitary meals, silent television, a bed that felt too big.
Lonely, my dear. Very lonely.
And now?
Not any more. He greets me from the garden, purrs while I cook, sleeps on my lap while I watch TV. Its better now.
What does Mum think? Archie asked.
Shed say its a waste of money, a needless trouble.
And you?
I think it isnt. Ginger brings me joy, and joy isnt wasteful.
In spring an unexpected visitor arrived: Sophie, the niece of the late Mrs. Bennett, a young woman with a small child.
Grandfather, sorry to intrude, she said. Im Sophie, Annas niece. I heard the cat was still here?
Peters heart clenched. Could he be asked to give up Ginger?
Yes, he lives here, he replied cautiously. And?
We never thought about the cat after the funeral. It feels wrong now, and wed like to take him home.
Peter felt a tightness in his chest.
Youre probably tired of him, I assume?
Not at all. Hes a lovely cat.
Sophie looked out at the garden where Ginger basked in the sun beside the rows.
Hes changed so much! He was so thin and sick before.
I cared for him, fed him well.
Thank you immensely! she said, gratitude bright in her eyes. Well cover any costs.
Peter stayed silent. Legally the cat belonged to the Bennett family, but over the months Ginger had become part of his life.
May we see him? Sophie asked.
They approached the cat. Ginger lifted his head, stared warily at the newcomers, then sauntered over to Peter, rubbing his legs.
Strange, Sophie murmured. He doesnt recognize me. I used to visit Aunt Anna often
Time passes, Peter explained. Hes probably forgotten.
But Peter sensed it wasnt mere forgetfulness. The cat had chosen a new caretaker, the one who fed, healed, and loved him.
Perhaps he could stay with you? Sophie ventured. Hes grown accustomed to you. And youve become attached
How? Peter asked, puzzled.
Simple. We live in a flat with a small child. The cat is old, used to freedom. Moving would distress him.
But hes ours
He was Aunts. Now hes yours, too. You saved him from hunger, then from illness. He belongs to you.
Peter could hardly believe his luck.
Seriously? Can we keep him?
Of course! Just let us know if you need anything food, medicine and well help.
After Sophie left, Peter lingered on the porch, stroking Gingers soft fur.
Hear that, mate? Youre staying with me, forever.
The cat purred, eyes halfclosed in contentment.
That evening Evelyn called.
Father, hows the cat? Is he still with you?
Hes alive. In fact, hes officially mine now. The owners came, gave their blessing.
Good. If hes become a habit
You know what Ive realized?
What?
A lonely man and a lonely cat rescue each other. I saved him from starvation; he saved me from solitude.
Father, stop philosophising
Im not philosophising, Im telling the truth. I now have a purpose rise at dawn, prepare his food, give his medicine. And theres joy, a purr beside me, a greeting at the gate.
Evelyn was silent, perhaps finally understanding why her father needed the cat.
Father, will you ever move to the city?
Never. I have everything here the house, the garden, Ginger. Why would I trade for city hustle?
Then youll stay.
Ill stay. Well stay.
A year later, Peter and Ginger continued their measured rhythm: breakfast and a stroll through the rows, chores in the afternoon while the cat napped in the shade, dinner and television with Ginger perched on his lap.
Neighbors, accustomed to their pairing, would comment:
Peter Whitakers cat has become quite tame!
Hes not just a cat; theyre one.
And that was true. They had saved each other an elderly solitary man and an unwanted ginger cat discovering in one another the understanding, warmth, and purpose they both craved.
What more does one need for happiness?
Ginger purrs on his masters lap as Peter thinks, How fortunate I was not to chase that starving wanderer away.
Sometimes the most crucial choices are made not with the mind, but with the heart, and they turn out to be the right ones.
