Father, have you taken in a cat? the daughter, Eleanor, asked, surprised as she arrived for the weekend.
George Whitaker stared out of the kitchen window, irritation blooming like a thistle. There, once again, the ginger tomcat lounged on his vegetable rowsthird day in a row.
At first it had nibbled the tomatoes, then it curled inside the cucumber vines, and today it simply claimed the young cabbage as its throne.
You should go back to your owners, the old man muttered, tapping the glass.
The cat lifted its head, stared with amber eyes, and stayed put, brazen as a streetlamp.
George slipped on his rubber boots and shuffled into the garden. The cat did not flee; it shuffled a few steps away and settled by the fencethin, ragged, one ear torn, tail frayed.
Well then, you little beggar? George crouched beside the cabbage, surveying the damage. Youve been wandering, havent you? No one will take you home now?
The cat let out a plaintive, soft meow. In that instant the old man realised the creature was starving; its gaunt frame sparked with desperate hunger.
Where are your owners? he asked, sitting crosslegged.
The cat padded closer, rubbing against his boot, purring as if to thank him for not shooing it away.
Granddad, why does a cat live in our yard? asked his grandson, Tommy, who had come to the cottage for a holiday.
Its a neighbours, I suppose. Lost, or maybe dumpedwho knows.
Whose was it?
George sighed. He knew the answer. It had belonged to Mrs. Margaret Hargreaves from the house next door. She had passed away a month earlier; relatives only turned up for the funeral, then sealed the house and cleared out everything, forgetting the cat.
It was Aunt Agness. Shes gone now.
And the cat?
He stayed.
Tommy looked at the ginger wanderer with a soft pity.
Granddad, shall we take him in?
As if! George snapped. I barely have enough to eat myself, and now you want me to look after this creature?
That evening, after Tommy had driven back to the city, the old man placed a shallow bowl of soup leftovers on the porch and stepped back. The cat slipped forward, ate greedily, hungrily.
All right, George murmured, just this once
Just once stretched into every morning thereafter. George would walk out to the garden, and the cat would be waiting at the gate, patient, silent, not a meow, just expectation.
At first George fed him scraps; later he started boiling porridge, buying cheap tins of fish. He told himself it was temporary, until the cat found new owners.
Ginger, come here, he called. Ill call you Ginger, or whatever Mrs. Margaret called you.
The cat responded to any name, as long as it was spoken.
Gradually the ginger settled. By day he basked in the sun over the rows, by night he padded to the porch, sleeping in the old dogs shed.
Temporary, George repeated. Absolutely temporary.
Weeks passed, and the cat never left. The old man realised he had grown attached to the orange muzzle at the gate, the soft evening purrs, the warm lap that sometimes found its way onto his knees when he sat on the porch.
Father, have you really taken in a cat? Eleanor asked, bewildered once more.
I didnt take him in. He came himself. A neighbours, the lady is dead
Then why feed him? Find somewhere else for him.
Who needs a stray old cat? George scratched the ginger behind the ear. Let him stay.
Father, thats an unnecessary expense. Food, vet bills your pension is already modest.
Well manage, the old man replied shortly.
Eleanor shook her head. Her father had become odd over the yearstalking to plants, now rescuing cats
Maybe you should move to the city? Come live with us? she suggested again. Why sit here alone?
Not alone. I have Ginger.
Father, seriously
Im serious. This is fine for us. We have the garden, we have the cat.
Eleanor sighed. It had become hard to converse with her father; he was stubborn, withdrawn after his wifes death.
In autumn the ginger fell ill. He stopped eating, lay in the shed, breathing shallowly. George worried as if for a kin.
Whats wrong, old friend? he sat beside the shed. Are you sick?
The cat opened his eyes, let out a weak meow. George hauled him to the local veterinary practice in the district centre, spending almost his entire pension on treatment, yet he felt no regret.
You have a good cat, the young vet said. Smart, gentle. Just old, immune system weak.
Will he survive?
With proper care he can make it through. Just keep him safe and give his medicine.
At home George set up a little infirmary on the veranda: old blankets, bowls of food and water, daily pills, temperature checks.
Get better, he whispered. Life would be dull without you.
And indeed, the weeks turned the ginger from a frail wanderer into a robust companion. He became more than a pet; he was the only living being that greeted George each day, the one who needed him as much as he needed the cat.
Granddad, is Ginger recovered? Tommy asked during his winter break.
Hes fine. Look, hes sleeping on his cushion.
The cat lay curled on a warm pad, fur glossy, eyes bright.
Will he stay here forever?
Where would he go? George patted the ginger. Were together. He gives me company; I give him a home.
Granddad, werent you lonely before?
George thought. Without his wife, the house felt empty, silent. He boiled soup for one, watched the television in a hush, lay down in a vacant bedroom.
Lonely, my dear, very lonely.
And now?
Now Im not lonely. The ginger meets me at the garden gate, purrs while I cook dinner, curls on my knees while I watch the telly. Its better.
Tommy nodded. He, too, understood how animals could fill a void.
Granddad, what does Mum think?
Mum would say its an unnecessary expense, a hassle.
And you?
I think its not unnecessary. The ginger brings me joy, and joy isnt a waste.
In spring an unexpected visitor arrived: the niece of the late Mrs. Margaret, a young woman with a child.
Grandfather, sorry to bother you, she said. Im Sophie, Margarets niece. I heard your cat is still here?
Georges heart gave a startled thump. Would they take the ginger away?
Hes still here, he answered cautiously. And?
I just wanted to ask After the funeral we left in a hurry and forgot about the cat. We felt ashamed later and thought wed like to bring him home.
I see, George felt something tighten in his chest.
You must be tired of him, all the trouble
Not tired. Hes a fine cat.
Sophie looked out to the garden where the ginger lay in the sun beside the rows.
Look how hes changed! He was so thin and sick before, now hes a handsome fellow!
I treated his illness, fed him well.
Thank you ever so much! she said, genuinely grateful. Well take him, of course, and cover any costs
George stayed silent. Legally the cat belonged to the Hargreaves family; Margaret had passed, her relatives had the right to claim him. Yet in the months that had passed, the ginger had become part of his life.
May we see him? Sophie asked.
They walked to the cat. The ginger lifted his head, eyed the strangers cautiously, then padded over to George and brushed against his legs.
Strange, Sophie noted. He doesnt recognise me. I used to visit Aunt Agnes often
Time does that, George replied. Hes probably forgotten.
But George understood it wasnt mere forgetfulness. The cat had chosen a new keeper: the one who fed, healed, loved him.
Perhaps he could stay with you? Sophie suggested suddenly. Hes grown used to you, and youre attached to him
What do you mean? George asked, bewildered.
Its simple. We live in a flat with a small baby. The cat is old, used to the freedom out here. We wouldnt want to uproot him.
But hes yours
He belonged to my aunt. Now hes yours. You saved him twicefirst from hunger, then from illness. Hes yours as much as hes ours.
George could scarcely believe his luck.
Seriously? He can stay?
Of course! Just let us know if you need anythingfood, medicinewell help.
After Sophie left, George lingered on the porch, stroking the ginger.
Heard that, old friend? Youre staying with me, forever.
The cat purred, eyes halfclosed in content.
That night Eleanor called.
Dad, hows everything? Is the cat still alive?
Alive and officially mine. The owners came, gave permission to keep him.
Good. If hes used to us
You know what Ive realised?
What?
A lonely person and a lonely cat rescue each other. I saved him from starvation; he saved me from solitude.
Father, stop philosophising
Im not philosophising, Im speaking the truth. Now I have a purposerise at dawn, prepare his meals, give his medicine. And theres joy, a purr beside me at the gate.
Eleanor fell silent, perhaps for the first time truly understanding why the cat meant so much to her father.
Father, will you ever move to the city?
Never. I have everything herehouse, garden, Ginger. Why trade it for city bustle?
Fine. So youre staying.
Im staying. Were staying.
A year passed. George and the ginger lived a measured life: breakfast and a stroll through the garden each morning; chores by day, the cat napping in the shade; dinner and television in the evening, the cat curled on his lap.
Neighbors grew used to seeing them together.
George, your cats become quite the tame one!
Hes not mine. Were one another.
And that was truth. They had rescued each otheran old solitary man and an unwanted old catfinding in one another the understanding, warmth, and purpose they each sought.
What more does happiness require?
The ginger purrs on his masters lap, and George thinks how fortunate he was not to shoo away that hungry wanderer long ago.
Sometimes the most vital decisions are made not with the mind, but with the heart, and they turn out to be the right ones.
