**The Business Trip**
Mid-autumn had arrived, but you couldnt call it pleasant weather. No sign of an «Indian summer»apparently, nature had other plans. The leaves turned gold and curled up like little scrolls, while a fine drizzle hung in the air all day, relentless. A biting wind chased everyone indoors, and with the temperature barely scraping 6°C, it was downright chilly for late September.
And here I was, by some twist of fate, sent on a business trip to a sleepy little town. They put me up in an old two-story house on the ground floor. Once, it had been flats for young professionals and their families, but these days, professionals were in short supply, so the place had been converted into a guesthouse.
Not that I minded. Outside my window stood a tall, sturdy maple, and whenever I cracked it open for a smoke, I couldnt help but admire that magnificent tree. Most of my day was spent working, but in the evenings, I savoured the quiet with a good booksomething my bustling hometown sorely lacked.
Then, one evening, I felt itthe unmistakable sensation of being watched. Someone (or something) was studying me through the glass. I peered into the darkness but saw nothing. Still, the prickling sense of observation lingered. Friend or fiend? I had no clue.
A few nights later, exhausted and starving, I cobbled together a humble supper of sliced ham, tinned sardines, and bread. Almost on instinct, I nudged the window openand in leapt a grand grey tomcat with golden eyes. A proper gentleman of a cat. Clearly, hed been my secret observer from the maples branches.
«Come in then,» I said. «Fancy a bite?»
After days of scrutiny, hed evidently deemed me trustworthy. With dignified grace, he approached the table. I laid out ham, fish, and a scrap of bread (do cats even eat bread? No idea, but ham and fish were safe bets). He ate with unhurried poise, and inexplicably, my mood lifted. Loneliness, perhaps.
When only a sliver of ham remained, he fixed me with such a pleading stare that I blurted, «Go on, take it.» With a flick of his tail, he snatched the prize, vaulted onto the sill, and vanished into the night.
I was oddly bereft. The next evening, I returned with extra provisionsham and a bit of roast chicken from the canteen. Sure enough, he returned, this time tapping the glass impatiently with his paw. We dined again, and this time, he lingered. I found myself rambling about my life, my work. He listened intently, those amber eyes peering straight into my soul. An hour later, he requested a chicken morsel with a soft meow and disappeared.
By now, I was smitten. Whose cat was he? Where did he go at night? More pressinglycould I take him home? The idea took root. A companion, a confidant. Someone (well, something) to share the silence with.
As my trip neared its end, I grew anxious. How to explain I was leaving? And how to find him when he always slipped away? On my last full day, I wandered the town, killing time. In a derelict garage lot, a shriek split the aira cats desperate cry, followed by snarling. I sprinted toward the noise.
There, cornered by three snarling lurchers, was a tiny tabby shielding two kittens. And between them and the dogs? My grey knight, slashing at muzzles with claws like razors. Blood sprayed as he whirled between attackers like a furry tornado. The dogs faltered, then fled.
I scooped up the kittens into my new holdall (purchased optimistically for the tom) while their mother trembled. The grey cat limped after us. Back at the guesthouse, I checked them overmum and kits were unharmed, but my valiant friend had a wounded paw and a gash by his ear.
«Vet first thing tomorrow,» I murmured. Funny how life works. Id hoped for one cat; now I was herding four. Yet as I headed home, my heart was light. A familyfeline, yes, but mine. And who knows? Maybe one day, a human one too.
Happiness is contagious, after all. At least, thats what I reckon. The vet fixed him up with stitches and a clean bill for the others. By the time the kittens opened their eyes, wed settled into a rhythmmorning snuggles, nightly prowls around the garden, and the grey tom, now named Ash, always perched on the windowsill, watching over us. The maple tree still stands, though its not the only thing rooted firmly in place anymore.
