Dad, did you really bring a cat home? gasped Emma, who had arrived for the weekend.
Arthur Whitaker stared out of his kitchen window, irritated. That orange tabby was perched on his vegetable beds againthird day in a row.
First it tore up the tomatoes, then it nested among the cucumbers, and today it claimed the young cabbage as its throne.
You ought to go back to your owners, muttered the old man, tapping the glass.
The cat lifted its head, stared with amber eyes, and stayed put, utterly brazen.
Arthur slipped on his rubber boots and trudged into the garden. The cat didnt bolt; it shuffled a few steps, then settled beside the fencethin, ragged, one ear torn, tail frayed.
Well, you little scrounger? Arthur crouched over the cabbage, inspecting the damage. Got yourself lost, eh? No ones taking you home now?
The cat let out a plaintive meow. In that instant Arthur realised the animal was starving; its gaunt frame sparked with sudden fire.
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 Charlie, who had come for a holiday at the cottage.
Its a neighbours, I suppose. Lost or abandonedI dont know.
Whose was it?
Arthur sighed. He knew. It had belonged to Mrs. Agnes Hartwell, the elderly lady from the next house. Shed died a month ago, and her relatives only came for the funeral. The house was locked up, the furniture cleared, and the cat was forgotten.
It was Agness cat. Shes gone now.
So the cat was left alone?
Left alone.
Charlie stared at the orange wanderer with a hint of pity.
Granddad, could we keep him?
Absolutely not! Arthur waved his hand. I didnt need a cat anyway. I have nothing to eat myself, and now
That evening, after Charlie had driven back to the city, Arthur placed a shallow bowl of soup remnants on the doorstep and stepped back. The cat crept forward, ate greedily, and vanished again into the shadows.
Fine, muttered Arthur, once wont hurt
Once turned into every day. At dawn the cat waited at the garden gate, patient, silent, never mewing, just watching.
At first Arthur fed it scraps; then he started boiling porridge, buying cheap tins of fish. He told himself it was temporary, just until the cat found a new home.
Ginger, come here, he called. Ill call you whatever Agnes called you.
The cat answered to any name; it only cared that it was being called.
Gradually Ginger settled in. By day he lounged in the sunshine among the rows, by dusk he slipped onto the porch, sleeping in the old dogs shed that still stood beside the garden.
Temporary, Arthur kept repeating. Absolutely temporary.
Weeks passed, and the cat never left. Arthur realised he had grown 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.
Dad, did you really bring a cat home? Emma asked, bewildered.
I didnt bring him; he showed up. A neighbours, the ladys whos gone
Then why feed him? Find somewhere else for him.
Who needs an old cat? Arthur scratched Ginger behind the ear. Let him stay.
Its an extra expense, Dad. Food, vet bills your pension is small.
Well manage, Arthur replied shortly.
Emma shook her head. Her father had become strange latelytalking to his plants, now rescuing cats.
Maybe you should move to the city, to us? she suggested again. Why stay alone?
Im not alone. Gingers here.
Seriously?
Im serious. This is fine. We have the garden, we have the cat.
Emma sighed. Talking to her father had become harder; he was stubborn, withdrawn after his wifes death.
In autumn Ginger fell ill. He stopped eating, lay in the shed, breathing shallowly. Arthur sat beside him, worried as if he were a child.
Whats wrong, mate? he whispered. Are you sick?
The cat let out a weak mew. Arthur drove him to the vet in the nearby town, spending nearly all his modest pension on treatment, but he felt no regret.
Hes a good cat, the young vet said. Smart, gentle. Just old, with a weak immune system.
Will he make it?
With proper care, he could live a while longer. Just keep him comfortable and on his medicine.
At home Arthur set up a makeshift infirmary on the porch, laying out old blankets, bowls of food and water, giving pills each day, checking his temperature.
Get better, he coaxed. Id be bored without you.
It was true. Over the months the cat became more than a pet; he was a companion, the only living thing that greeted Arthur each day, the only one who seemed to need him as much as he needed them.
Granddad, is Ginger recovered? asked Charlie during his winter break.
Hes fine. Look, hes sleeping on his little sofa.
Ginger dozed on a warm cushion, curled tight, his fur shining, eyes bright.
Will he stay here forever?
Where else could he go? Arthur stroked his back. Were together. He gives me company; I give him a home.
Granddad, didnt you feel lonely before?
Arthur thought. With his wife gone, the house felt empty, silent. He cooked soup for one, watched the telly in a quiet room, went to bed to a void.
It was lonely, my dear. Very lonely.
And now?
Now it isnt. Ginger greets me when I return from the garden, purrs while I cook dinner, curls on my knees when I watch television. Its better.
Charlie nodded. He, too, understood how an animal could fill a void.
Granddad, what does Mum think?
Shed say its a waste of money, a needless bother.
And you?
I think it isnt. He brings me joy, and joy isnt a waste.
In spring an unexpected visitor arrived: the niece of the late Agnes Hartwell, a young woman with a small child.
Sorry to disturb you, she said. Im Clara, Agness niece. I heard your cat is still here?
Arthurs heart leapt. Would they take Ginger away?
Hes here, he answered cautiously. What of it?
After the funeral we left in a hurry, didnt think about the cat. We remembered it later and felt guilty. Wed like to take him home.
Arthur felt a tight knot in his chest. Legally the cat belonged to Agness family, but he had grown to love him.
May we see him? Clara asked.
They approached Ginger. He lifted his head, eyed the strangers, then padded over to Arthur, rubbing his head against the mans boots.
Strange, Clara remarked. He doesnt recognise me. I used to visit Aunt Agnes often
Time changes things, Arthur said. He probably just forgot.
But it wasnt forgetfulness; the cat had chosen a new keeper, the one who fed him, healed him, loved him.
Perhaps he could stay with us? Clara suggested suddenly. Hes grown used to you. And youve grown attached.
What? Arthur asked, bewildered.
We live in a flat with a little boy. The cat is old, used to the freedom of a garden. Moving him would be cruel.
But hes ours
He belonged to my aunt. You rescued him from hunger, then from illness. Youve essentially adopted him.
Arthur could scarcely believe his luck.
Seriously? We could keep him?
Of course! Just let us know if you need any help with food or medicine.
When Clara left, Arthur lingered on the porch, stroking Gingers soft fur.
You hear that, mate? he whispered. Youre staying with me. Forever.
The cat purred, eyes halfclosed in contentment.
That night Emma called.
Dad, hows the cat?
Hes alive. In fact, hes officially mine now. The owners came, but they let me keep him.
Good. If hes used to us
You know what Ive realized?
What?
A lonely man and a lonely cat save each other. I rescued him from hunger; he rescued me from solitude.
Dad, stop being philosophical
Im not philosophising, just telling the truth. I now have purposemaking his food, giving his medicine. And theres joy, toosomeone purring next to me at the gate each morning.
Emma fell silent, perhaps finally understanding why the cat mattered so much.
Dad, are you really not moving to the city?
Never. I have everything heremy house, the garden, Ginger. Why would I trade it for city bustle?
Fine. So youre staying.
Im staying. Were staying.
A year later Arthur and Ginger lived their measured life. Mornings began with tea and a stroll through the beds; days were spent mending fences while the cat napped in the shade; evenings were quiet meals and the telly, with Ginger curled on his lap.
Neighbors often remarked:
Arthur, your cats become quite the tame one!
Hes not mine. Were one another.
It was true. They had rescued each otherthe solitary old man and the unwanted orange catfinding in each other the understanding, warmth, and purpose they each sought.
What else does one need for happiness?
Ginger purrs in his masters lap, and Arthur thinks how lucky he was not to chase that starving wanderer away. How fortunate he was to feel pity.
Sometimes the most important decisions arent made with the mind, but with the heart, and they turn out to be the right ones.
