Dad, did you actually take in a cat? my daughter Poppy asked, eyes wide when she turned up for the weekend.
I, Peter Whitaker, stared out of the kitchen window, irritated. There it was again that scruffy ginger tom perched on my lettuce rows, his third day in a row.
Hed first ripped through the tomatoes, then curled up in the cucumber beds yesterday, and today hed made a nest in the young cabbage.
Maybe you should go back to your owners, I muttered, tapping the glass.
The cat lifted its yellow eyes, stared right at me and stayed put, as bold as ever.
I slipped on my rubber boots and trudged out to the allotment. The cat didnt bolt; he just shuffled a few steps away and settled by the fence skinny, ragtag, an ear torn, tail in bits.
Alright, you little scrounger, I said, crouching over the cabbage and taking stock of the damage. Looks like youve got nowhere to go now, eh?
He let out a soft, pitiful meow, and it hit me the beast was starving. His eyes were bright with hunger.
Wheres your people? I asked, sitting on the garden wall.
He padded closer, rubbing his head against my boot, purring low as if to thank me for not shooing him away.
My grandson Simon, whod come up for a bit of country air, asked, Granddad, whys there a cat living in the garden?
Neighbours, I said. Lost or dumped, I cant say.
Who did it belong to?
I sighed. It was Mrs. Anna Whitaker, the lady next door whod passed away a month ago. Her family only turned up for the funeral, then cleared the house and the lot, leaving the cat behind.
Anna had him. Shes gone now.
Did the cat stay alone?
Yep, all alone.
Simon looked at the ginger wanderer with a hint of pity. Granddad, why dont we take him in?
Dont even think about it, I snapped. Ive got enough on my plate without another mouth to feed.
But that evening, after Simon headed back to the city, I fetched a shallow bowl of leftover soup from the kitchen, set it on the porch, and walked back. The cat crept forward, ate greedily, and wiped his whiskers clean.
Alright then, I grumbled, just once.
One once became every day. By morning the cat was waiting at the gate, sitting patiently, not a single meow or whine just watching.
At first I fed him scraps. Soon I started boiling a pot of oatmeal, buying the cheap tins from the local shop. I kept telling myself it was only temporary, until he found a new home.
Orange, come here, Id call, or whatever Mrs. Anna used to call you.
Hed respond to any name, as long as it meant something to him.
Gradually, the ginger settled in. Hed sunbathe in the allotment by day, wander to the porch at dusk, and curl up in the old dogs kennel that still sat by the shed. I kept telling myself it was just a stopgap.
Weeks passed and the cat never left. I realised hed grown used to my routine: the familiar snout at the gate, the soft purrs at night, the warm lap Id sometimes offer while watching the telly.
Dad, did you really bring a cat home? Poppy asked again, surprised.
No, he showed up on his own. A neighbours cat, the previous owner gone
And why keep feeding him? You could find someone else.
Who needs an old cat anyway? I scratched his ear. Let him be.
Dad, thats an extra expense food, vet, and your pensions already tight.
Well manage, I said shortly.
Poppy shook her head. Shed noticed Id become a bit odd lately, talking to my tomatoes and now looking after a stray.
Maybe you should move to the city, live with us? Youre alone out here.
Not alone. The orange lad keeps me company.
She laughed, Youre serious?
Dead serious. This place works for me the garden, the cat.
She sighed. Its been hard for her to talk to me since Mum died; Ive shut myself off, gotten stubborn.
Come autumn, the ginger fell ill. He stopped eating, lay in the kennel, breathing shallow. I sat beside him, worried sick.
Whats wrong, mate? I whispered. Feeling sick?
He gave a weak meow. I hauled him off to the vet in the nearby town, spending almost every penny of my pension on treatment. The young doctor examined him and said, Hes a good cat, sweet and intelligent. Just old, his immune systems weak.
Will he make it?
If you look after him properly, hell have a few more months. Just keep him warm and on his meds.
Back home I turned the porch into a makeshift infirmary old blankets, food and water bowls, daily pills, and temperature checks.
Get better, I told him. Life would be dull without you.
Those months turned the cat from a garden pest into a true friend, the only living thing that seemed to genuinely enjoy my company.
Granddad, is Orange getting better? Simon asked during his winter break.
Hes on the mend. Look, hes sleeping on his little cushion.
He was indeed curled up, fur glossy, eyes bright. Healthy again.
Will he stay here forever? Simon wondered.
Where else would he go? I patted his back. Hes mine now, and Im his.
Did you ever feel lonely before him? Simon pressed.
I thought. After Mum passed, the house felt empty, the kitchen silent, the TV a background hum. Dead lonely, love. Very lonely.
Now?
Now Im not. He greets me when I come back from the garden, purrs while I cook dinner, nests on my lap while I watch telly. Its a good change.
Simon nodded. He knows how a pet can fill a quiet life.
Granddad, what does Mum think?
Shed have said its a waste of money, a bother.
And you?
I think it isnt. He brings me joy, and joy isnt a waste.
Spring brought a surprise. Annas niece, a young woman named Sophie, turned up with her little boy.
Sorry to bother you, Mr. Whitaker, she said. Im Sophie, Annas niece. Heard your orange cat is still around?
My heart clenched. Hes still here, I answered cautiously. What about it?
We just realised after the funeral we never arranged for the cat. Wed like to take him back, if thats alright.
I felt a tightness in my chest. I understand youre probably tired of looking after him?
No, not at all. Hes a lovely cat.
Sophie glanced at the garden where the ginger lounged in the sun.
Hes looking much healthier now, she observed. Well cover any costs, of course.
I stayed quiet. Legally the cat belonged to Annas family, but after all these months hed become part of my life.
Can I see him? she asked.
We walked over. The cat lifted his head, eyed the strangers, then padded over to me, rubbing against my leg.
Strange, Sophie murmured. He doesnt recognize me. I used to visit Aunt Anna often.
Its been a while, I said. He probably just forgot.
I realised it wasnt forgetfulness the cat had simply chosen his new keeper. The one who fed him, healed him, loved him.
Sophie hesitated. Maybe maybe he could stay with you? Hes grown used to you, and youve grown attached.
What? I asked, halflaughing.
Its simple. We live in a flat with a toddler, and an old cat likes freedom. Moving him would stress him out.
But hes yours now.
He was Aunt Annas, but you rescued him twice from hunger, then from illness. He belongs to you as much as to us.
I could hardly believe my luck. Seriously? I can keep him?
Sure, just let us know if you ever need food or medicine well help.
After Sophie left, I sat on the porch, stroking the gingers fur. Youre staying, old mate. Forever.
He purred, closing his eyes in content.
That evening Poppy called.
Dad, hows the cat?
Alive and well. Hes officially mine now the family came over, said its fine.
Good. If hes settled
Listen, Ive figured something out.
Whats that?
A lonely person and a lonely cat they save each other. I fed him, he kept my days from being empty.
Dad, stop being all philosophical
Im not philosophising, Im being honest. I now have a reason to get up, make his meals, give his meds. And theres joy in having him purr beside me.
She was quiet. Maybe, for the first time, she saw why this cat mattered to me.
Dad, youre definitely not moving in with us, are you?
Never. Ive got everything I need the house, the garden, and Orange. Why would I trade that for city rush?
Alright then, youre staying.
Staying. Were staying.
A year passed. I and Orange keep a steady rhythm: breakfast, a stroll through the allotment, chores, a nap in the shade, dinner and telly with the cat on my lap.
Neighbours now smile when they see us. Peter, your cats become a proper pet!
Hes not just yours, I say. Were a pair.
Its true. We rescued each other an old widower and a cat nobody wanted. We found in each other what wed been missing companionship, warmth, a purpose.
What else does anyone need for happiness?
Orange purrs on my knees, and I think how lucky I was not to shoo that hungry stray away. How blessed I was to feel a little pity.
Sometimes the best decisions arent made with the head, but with the heart and they turn out to be the right ones.
