Dad, did you actually adopt a cat? asked his daughter Blythe, who had turned up for the weekend.
Peter Whitaker stared out of the kitchen window with a sigh. There it was again: the ginger cat lounging on his vegetable beds, for the third day running.
First it raided the tomatoes, then it napped among the cucumbers, and today it simply claimed a spot on the young cabbages.
You could at least try to find its owners, muttered the old man, tapping the glass.
The cat lifted its head, fixed him with amber eyes and stayed put. Brazen, to say the least.
Peter slipped on his rubber boots and trudged out to the garden. The cat didnt bolt; it shuffled a few steps forward and perched by the fence, skinny as a rail, one ear torn, tail in tatters.
Whats the story, you scrounger? Peter said, crouching by the cabbage and eyeing the damage. Youve got the wrong address now, havent you?
The cat let out a pitiful, barely audible meow, and Peter realised the animal was famished. Its gaunt eyes burned with hunger.
Wheres your home? he asked, sitting down 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 Charlie, whod arrived from the city for a holiday.
It belongs to the neighbours, I suppose. Got lost or tossed out, I cant say.
Whose was it?
Peter exhaled. He knew. It had belonged to Mrs. Hannah Sampson from the cottage next door. Shed passed away a month earlier; relatives only came for the funeral, then locked the house and cleared it out. The cat, forgotten, was left behind.
She was Aunt Annas cat. Shes gone now.
So the cat was left on its own?
Exactly.
Charlie looked at the reddish wanderer with a sigh.
Granddad, what if we take him in?
Oh, please! Peter waved his hand. Ive barely enough food for myself, and now you want a cat too?
But that evening, after Charlie had gone back to the city, Peter set a bowl of soup leftovers by the back door. The cat crept over, ate greedily, and lapped up the last spoonful.
Fine, Peter muttered, one times alright
That one time stretched into a daily routine. Each morning the cat waited at the garden gate, patient and quiet, never meowing for attention, just watching.
At first Peter fed him scraps; later he started boiling porridge and buying cheap tins. He told himself it was temporary, until the cat found a new home.
Ginger, come here, hed call. Ill keep calling you. What did Mrs. Sampson call you, anyway?
The cat answered to any name, as long as it was spoken.
Gradually the ginger settled in. Hed sunbathe in the garden by day and wander to the back porch by night, curling up in the old dogs kennel.
Temporary, Peter would repeat. Absolutely temporary.
Weeks passed and the cat never left. Peter realised hed grown attached to that orange muzzle at the gate, the soft evening purrs, the warm lap that sometimes welcomed him when he sat on the porch.
Dad, did you really bring a cat home? Blythe asked, eyes wide.
I didnt bring him, he showed up. A neighbours cat, former ladys cat
Then why feed him? Find someplace else for him.
Who needs a cat anyway? Peter scratched the ginger behind the ear. Let him stay.
Its an extra expense, Dad. Food, vet bills your pensions already modest.
Ill manage, Peter answered curtly.
Blythe shook her head. Her father had become a bit odd latelytalking to his plants, now rescuing stray cats.
Maybe you should move to the city, to us? she suggested again. Why are you still out here alone?
Not alone. Ive got the ginger.
Seriously?
Im deadserious. This is fine. We have the garden, and the cat.
Blythe sighed. Talking to her father had become harder; hed withdrawn after Mums death.
In autumn the ginger fell ill, stopped eating, and lay listlessly in the old kennel. Peter watched over him like a worried son.
Whats wrong, old chap? he sat beside the kennel. You feeling under the weather?
The cat let out a weak meow. Peter took him to the local veterinary practice in the nearby town, spending almost his entire pension on treatment, but he didnt regret it.
Hes a good cat, the young vet said. Smart and gentle, just old and his immune systems weak.
Will he make it?
With proper care he could live a few more months. Just keep him warm and on his meds.
Back home, Peter set up a little hospital on the porch: old blankets, bowls of food and water, daily pills, and a thermometer.
Get better, he coaxed. Life would be dreadfully boring without you.
And indeed, over the months the cat became more than a pet; he was a companion, the only creature that greeted Peter each day and kept his loneliness at bay.
Granddad, is Ginger getting better? asked Charlie, returning for winter holidays.
Hes fine. Look, hes asleep on his cushion.
The ginger dozed, curled up in a warm ball, his coat shining, eyes bright. He seemed genuinely healthy.
Will he stay here forever?
Where else could he go? Peter stroked the orange fur. Were a team. He gives me company; I give him a home.
Didnt you ever feel lonely before? Charlie asked.
Peter thought. After his wife passed, the house felt empty, the kettle boiled for one, the television murmured to a silent room.
Very lonely, love. Really lonely.
And now?
Now its not lonely. He greets me when I return from the garden, purrs while I cook, curls on my lap while I watch the telly. Its nice.
Charlie nodded; he also understood how animals could fill a quiet life.
What does Mum think about all this? Blythe pressed.
Shed have said its a needless expense, a bother.
And you?
I reckon its not needless at all. The ginger brings me joy, and joy isnt a waste.
In spring an unexpected visitor arrived: Hannah Sampsons niece, a young woman named Sophie, with a toddler in tow.
Sorry to bother you, Sophie said. Im Sophie, Aunt Hannahs niece. I heard you still have her cat?
Peters heart jumped. Could he lose the ginger?
Hes still here, Peter replied cautiously. What of it?
We realised after the funeral we never thought about the cat. Its a bit embarrassing, but wed like to take him back.
Peter felt a tight knot in his chest.
Youre tired of him, I guess? Too much trouble?
Not at all. Hes lovely.
Sophie glanced at the garden where the ginger lounged in the sun.
Look how hes changed! He was thin and sick before; now hes a handsome fellow.
Ive been looking after him, feeding him well.
Thank you so much! Sophie smiled, genuinely grateful. Well cover any costs.
Peter fell silent. Legally, the cat belonged to Hannahs family. Yet after months of caring for him, the ginger had become part of Peters life.
Could we see him? Sophie asked.
They approached the ginger. He lifted his head, eyed the strangers warily, then padded over to Peter, rubbing against his legs.
Odd, Sophie remarked. He doesnt recognise me. I used to visit Aunt Anna often
Time does that, Peter said. He probably just forgot.
But Peter realised it wasnt forgetfulness. The cat had simply chosen a new keeperhim.
Maybe he could stay with you? Sophie suggested suddenly. Hes used to the garden, and we have a flat with a small child. Moving him would be a hassle.
Hes ours now, isnt he?
He belonged to Aunt Anna, then to us. You rescued him twicefirst from hunger, then from illness. So hes yours as much as ours.
Peter could hardly believe his luck.
Seriously? We can keep him?
Of course! If you ever need food or medicine, just give us a shout. Well help.
After Sophie left, Peter sat on the porch, stroking the ginger.
Heard that, old boy? Youre staying, forever.
The cat purred, eyes halfclosed in contentment.
That evening Blythe called.
Dad, hows the cat? Is he still alive?
Alive and official, love. The relatives came, gave their blessing, and hes mine now.
Good. If hes already settled
You know what I realised? Peter said. A lonely man and a lonely cat save each other. I fed him, he kept my solitude at bay.
Stop being all philosophical, Dad
Im not philosophising, Im stating facts. I now have a purposemaking his food, giving his meds. And theres joy, toosomeone to purr at the gate.
Blythe was silent, perhaps finally seeing why her father needed that orange fellow.
So youre definitely not moving to the city?
Never. Ive got the house, the garden, and the ginger. I dont need urban hustle.
Alright then, youre staying.
I am. Were staying.
A year later Peter and the ginger led a measured, pleasant life. Mornings: tea, a stroll through the beds. Days: chores, the cat napping in the shade. Evenings: dinner, the telly, the cat perched on his lap.
Neighbours would comment:
Peter, your cats become a proper pet!
Hes not just yours; youre two of a kind.
And that was true. An old widower and a onceabandoned cat had rescued each other, finding in the other the companionship, warmth, and purpose theyd both been missing.
What more does one need for happiness? The ginger purrs on his owners knees, and Peter thinks how glad he was not to shoo that hungry wanderer away. Sometimes the most crucial decisions are made not with the head, but with the heart, and they turn out to be the right ones.
