**The Striped Guardian of the Close**
Everything in this close was out in the open: windows faced one another, children knew not just their neighbours names but their habits, and the adults kept track of who left and returned at what hour. By late September, the grass still clung to its green, though mornings left it weighed down with heavy dew. Come evening, voices filled the airlads kicking a ball between the kerbs, girls setting up a makeshift “shop” on the bench beneath the old chestnut tree. Among them, moving as if tracing a familiar map, was the catlarge, striped, with white patches on her paws and chest. She belonged to no one, yet everyone knew her: Muffin, or simply The Cat.
The children treated her like a living talisman: some brought scraps of ham from home, others stroked her back or whispered secrets, carried off by the breeze. The women, too, held her in affectionsome left bowls of food by the front steps, others invited her into the porch on stormy nights. Even newcomers soon noticedwithout her, something vital was missing from the daily rhythm of the close.
But one family saw her differently. Young Alfies parents regarded The Cat with suspicion, even irritation. His mother often said aloud, “Its not safe! Who knows what germs shes carrying? Strays are unpredictable!” His father rarely spoke of animals at all, but his silence agreed. Their fears were simple: cleanliness came first, and their boy shouldnt risk catching something from “the street.”
Alfie stole glances at The Cat when his parents werent looking. If caught, hed pretend to be engrossed in his toy cars. But the moment their backs were turned, hed edge closer, waiting by the flowerbeds or sandpit.
Evenings here had a way of stretching, the sun dipping behind rooftops while the pavement cooled. The children lingered, as if summer hadnt quite surrendered. But the air grew sharp after sunset, pulling coats tighter and hands deeper into sleeves.
The Cat knew them allresponding only to certain voices or footsteps. If Alfie called softly from behind the bushes, shed approach with care. If Mrs. Wilkins tapped a spoon against a bowl by the door, shed appear faster than any other tom in the neighbourhood.
Life carried on predictably: schoolchildren vanishing around the corner in the morning, toddlers and grandparents by the sandpit in the afternoon, and by evening, the close gathered again beneath the first-floor windows.
Alfies mother sometimes tried to warn the others. “What if shes sick? A proper house cat would be different.” But the women just shrugged. “Shes harmless! We keep an eye on her.” “Without her, wed be overrun with mice!” The conversation always petered out, leaving everyone unmoved.
Then came an evening in late September. The day had been damp, puddles still mirroring window frames between the paving stones. The chestnut leaves were turning, a few already swirling beneath the swings.
Alfie was playing near the house with two older girls and ones younger brother. The Cat lounged on the warm kerb by the entranceshe always sought out the last of the days heat.
Then came the barkinga deep, jarring sound from the direction of the garages. The children froze; even the adults turned as one.
Around the corner came a doga big black mongrel, hackles raised, its collar torn. It moved fast, jerking its head as if searching for someone.
Alfie stumbled back behind the older girl. “Itll go away,” she said, but the dog kept coming. The children retreated, calling for help. Alfies mother was first out the door, sprinting across the wet lawn. His father, still in the kitchen, hadnt seen the danger yet.
Then The Cat moved. Faster than anyone could react, she shot forward, low to the ground, straight at the dog. The mongrel snapped its head around, bared its teeth, and gave chaseaway from the children, past the bushes, beyond the streetlights glow.
Alfie was safe. The dog vanished, and the close fell silent, all eyes fixed where their striped guardian had disappeared.
His mother clutched him, feeling his heart hammer beneath his coat. “Its alright,” she murmured. But no one saw where The Cat had gone.
As dusk settled, the children searchedunder cars, behind benches, along her usual haunts. The adults shone phone torches into shadows, calling her name.
Alfie found her first, beneath the lilac bush where leaves gathered after the wind. Her side was heaving, her eyes half-closed, a white patch of belly trembling in the damp grass. The children crowded around; the adults knelt carefully. Mrs. Wilkins wrapped her in a coat, lifting her gently to avoid the wound.
Back inside, the close became a makeshift hospital. Alfies mother held him back but didnt look away. His father scrolled for the nearest vet. The Cat lay on an old towel, her side matted with blood. The women worked quicklyiodine, bandages, a bowl of water placed within reach.
Alfie watched, wide-eyed, as even his strictest mother steadied The Cats paw. “Hold her firm but gently,” she whispered. The room smelled of wet fur and antiseptic. His father returned with a clean sheet. “The vetll see her first thing,” he said quietly.
They took her home. That night, Alfie lay awake, straining to hear any sound from the next room. His mother checked often, adjusting the towel, refreshing the water.
Morning came early. The kettle hissed; his father sliced bread in near-silence. The Cat lifted her head when Alfie stroked her, mewing softlyas if in thanks.
The vet confirmed the wound wasnt life-threatening but needed care. They left with instructions, a prescription, and a leaflet on stray first aid”just in case.”
Back home, duties were shared. His mother kept the space clean, his father brought food, and Alfieunder watchful eyeshelped change the bandages. Neighbours visited, bringing treats or hand-drawn cards.
By evening, the flat felt oddly peacefullike after a storm or a celebration. The Cat improved daily: eating from Alfies hand, tolerating strokes, testing the limits of her sanctuary.
Within days, she was healing faster than expected. The wound dried, her appetite returned, and her gaze sharpened.
One crisp evening, his mother opened the window wide. The Cat hopped onto the sill, staring out as if memorising the closes every scent.
“Maybe we should let her go,” his mother said, no longer wary but soft, like releasing an old friend.
His father nodded. Even Alfie understood.
The Cat leaped down, landing lightly on the dry grass before vanishing into the lilac shadows where theyd found her.
By morning, the close was alive again, everyone searching for their striped guardian. When she reappeared by the sandpit, the children rushed to greet her. The women exchanged smiles across the distance, sharing something wordless.
Even Alfies family treated her differently nowhis mother left food by the steps, his father spotted her first from the kitchen window, and Alfie no longer hid his affection.
The Cat remained her own mistressfree as ever. But the close had learned her worth. No more debates over “cleanliness” or strays. Theyd all seen the small miracle of how one striped cat had united them, if only to save the most fragile life in this big, wide world.
