17October2025 Dear Diary,
Poppy burst into the cottage this weekend, eyes wide. Dad, did you suddenly take in a cat? she asked, bewildered. I stared out of the kitchen window, irritated. There, again, was that ginger cat perched on my allotment beds the third day in a row. First it chewed through the tomatoes, yesterday it curled up in the cucumber rows, and today it claimed a young head of cabbage as its throne.
I muttered, You should be back with your owners, tapping the glass. The cat lifted its amber eyes, stared, and stayed, as brazen as ever.
I slipped on my rubber Wellington boots and trudged out. The cat didnt bolt; it shuffled a few steps, then settled by the fence skinny, ear torn, tail ragged. Well, little beggar, I said, crouching over the cabbage, youve had your fill, havent you? Surely youre not being taken home now?
A soft, pitiful mew escaped its throat. I realised the creature was hungry, its eyes flashing. Where are your owners? I asked, sitting crosslegged on the earth.
The cat padded closer, rubbing against my boot, purring low as if thanking me for not shooing it away.
Charlie, my grandson, arrived for a weekend at the cottage. Granddad, why does a cat live in our garden? he inquired.
It belongs to the neighbours, I replied. Got lost or perhaps was discarded Im not sure.
What about the previous owners? he pressed.
I sighed. It was Hannah Whitakers cat from the house next door. She had passed away a month earlier; relatives only turned up for the funeral, the house was emptied, the belongings carted away, and the poor cat was forgotten.
Did it belong to Grandma Hannah? Charlie asked.
Yes. When she died, the cat was left alone.
Did it stay by itself? he frowned.
It did.
Charlies face softened. Granddad, why dont we take him home?
Dont be ridiculous, I snapped. I cant spare another mouth to feed. Im already scraping by.
That evening, after Charlie drove back to the city, I placed a shallow bowl of leftover soup near the porch. The cat crept forward, ate greedily, licking the bowl clean.
Well, alright, I muttered, once wont hurt.
What started as a oneoff quickly became routine. Each morning the ginger beast waited at the gate, silent and patient. At first I fed him scraps; then I began buying cheap tins of fish and even boiled a pot of porridge for him, telling myself it was only until he found a new home.
Rusty, I called him, or whatever name you fancy, it doesnt matter. Just answer when I call.
He responded to every sound, as long as it was spoken.
Weeks slipped by and Rusty settled. By day he basked in the sun on the allotment, by dusk he trotted to the porch, sleeping in the old dog kennel that had once housed Buster. I kept telling myself it was temporary, but the cat never left, and the sight of his familiar face at the gate grew comforting.
When Poppy returned, she stared in disbelief. Did you really bring a cat into the house? she asked.
It wasnt my doing. The neighbours cat wandered in after Hannah died, I explained. Hes just been… staying.
She worried about the cost. Dad, youre on a modest pension now about four hundred pounds a month. Feeding a cat, vet bills its a stretch.
Well manage, I replied curtly. She suggested I move to the city, live with them. Why stay alone out here? she pressed.
Not alone, I said, patting Rustys ear. Hes here, and the gardens mine.
Autumn arrived, and Rusty grew listless. He stopped eating, curled up in the kennel, breathing shallowly. I sat beside him, whispering, Whats wrong, old chap?
He gave a faint mew. I drove him to the veterinary practice in the nearby market town, spending nearly the whole of my pension on tests and medication. The young vet examined him, noting, Hes an old soul, a bit frail, but with proper care he can pull through.
Back home I turned the porch into a makeshift convalescent ward: fresh blankets, water bowls, a steady supply of tablets, and daily temperature checks. Get better, I urged, Im bored without you.
The weeks of treatment forged a bond stronger than any Id known. Rusty was no longer a stray; he was a companion, the only creature that genuinely welcomed my return after a long day.
During the winter break, Charlie visited again. Granddad, is Rusty alright? he asked, peering at the cat dozing on a warm cushion.
Much better, I said, watching the ginger fur glint in the low light. Hes sleeping soundly, eyes bright.
Will he stay forever? Charlie wondered.
Where would he go? I chuckled, stroking his head. Hes with me, and Im with him. He keeps me company, I give him a roof.
Did you ever feel lonely, Granddad? he pressed.
I paused. Since Hannahs death the house had felt empty, the kettle boiled for one, the television droned in silence. Yes, very lonely, I admitted. But now Im not. He greets me at the gate, purrs while I cook, curls on my lap while I watch the news. Its a good life.
Spring brought an unexpected visitor: Sarah, Hannahs niece, arrived with her toddler. Excuse me, Mr. Whitaker, she said, Im Sarah, Hannahs niece. I heard your cat is still around.
My heart thudded. Could she claim Rusty?
Its still here, I answered cautiously.
She explained how they had fled after the funeral, forgetting the cat, and now felt guilty. Wed like to take him home, she said, eyes hopeful.
I looked at Rusty, who lifted his head, studied the strangers, then padded back to me, nudging my leg. Sarah sighed, It seems hes chosen you.
She lingered, then proposed, Perhaps he could stay with you? We cant manage an old cat in our flat with a small child.
Can I keep him? I asked, half in disbelief.
Yes, if you need any supplies or medicine, just let us know, she replied.
When Sarah left, I sat on the porch, Rustys warm purr vibrating against my palm. Youll stay with me, old friend? I whispered. He responded with a contented trill.
Later that evening, Poppy called. Dad, hows the cat? Is he still alive?
Alive and officially mine now, I said. The Whitakers came by, gave their blessing. Hes mine.
She laughed. Good. You finally found a reason to get up in the morning.
I told her, A solitary man and a solitary cat saved each other. I rescued him from hunger; he rescued me from loneliness.
She teased, Dont get all philosophical on me.
I answered, No philosophy, just truth. I now have purpose feed him, tend his meds, enjoy his purrs at the gate. Its simple joy.
She asked, You really arent moving to the city?
Never. I have my house, my allotment, and Rusty. The bustle isnt for me.
A year later, life is steady. Mornings begin with tea, a walk through the beds, a quick check on Rusty who lounges in the shade. Afternoons are spent repairing fences, reading, or simply watching him nap. Evenings bring dinner, the television, and his soft head on my knees.
The neighbours often remark, Your cats become a right proper pet! I reply, He isnt mine; were one and the same.
What have I learned? That sometimes the heart knows better than the mind. A small act of kindness can turn a stray into a friend, and that friendship can fill the empty spaces we never knew were there.
Peter Whitaker.
