Dear Diary,
Dad, have you taken in a cat? my daughter Ethel asked, surprise bright in her voice as she arrived for the weekend. I stared out of the kitchen window, irritated. There it was again that orange tabby perched on my vegetable beds, third day in a row.
First it chewed my tomatoes, then it sprawled among the cucumbers, and today it simply claimed the young cabbage as its throne.
Go back to your owners, I muttered, tapping the glass. The cat lifted its yellow eyes, sat very smugly, and did not move.
I slipped on my rubber boots and trudged out to the garden. The cat didnt bolt; it shuffled a few steps forward and settled by the fence, thin, ragged, ear torn, tail stubby.
Little beggar, whats happened to you? Wont anyone take you home? I crouched beside the cabbage, inspecting the damage.
It let out a pitiful, quiet mew. Suddenly I realised the animal was famished; its gaunt body trembled.
Where are your owners? I asked, sitting crosslegged.
The cat padded closer, rubbing against my boot, purring softly as if thanking me for not shooing it away.
Granddad, why does a cat live in our yard? my grandson Tommy asked, visiting the summer cottage.
It belongs to the neighbours. Lost, maybe tossed out Im not sure, I replied.
Whose cat was it?
A sigh escaped me. I knew the answer. It had belonged to Agnes Semenova, the elderly lady next door. Shed passed away a month ago; only relatives turned up for the funeral. The house was sealed, the furniture cleared, and the cat was simply forgotten.
She was my aunt, Agnes. Shes gone now. I said.
So the cat was left alone?
Yes, I confirmed.
Tommy looked at the ginger stray with a hint of pity. Granddad, can we keep him?
Never! I snapped. I could do without a cat. I have nothing to eat myself, and now
Yet that evening, after Tommy had driven back to the city, I placed a bowl of leftover soup by the garden gate and stepped back. The cat crept over cautiously, began to eat greedily, gulping down every spoonful.
Fine, one time only, I muttered.
That one time turned into every day. Each morning I went out to the beds and the cat was already waiting at the gate, patient, silent, just watching.
At first I fed him scraps; soon I was boiling porridge and buying cheap tins, telling myself it was temporary, until he found a new home.
Rusty, come here, I called. Ill call you Rusty, or whatever Mrs. Agnes used to call you.
He responded to any name, as long as he was addressed.
Gradually Rusty settled. He basked in the sunlight over the rows, returned to the gate each evening, slept in the old dogs kennel left behind.
Temporary, I kept repeating. Just temporary.
Weeks slipped by and Rusty never left. The thought of his orange face at the gate, his soft evening purrs, the warm lap he sometimes claimed while I watched television all of it became a small comfort.
Ethel returned, eyebrows raised. Dad, did you really take a cat in?
No, he found his way here. A neighbours pet, the lady is dead
And why feed him? Find him somewhere else.
Who needs an old cat anyway? I scratched his ear. Let him stay.
Its an extra expense food, vet, youve a tiny pension, Ethel warned.
Well manage, I said shortly.
She shook her head. My behaviour had changed over the years; I talked to the potatoes, now I even rescued stray cats.
Maybe you should move to the city, live with us? she suggested again. Why stay here alone?
Not alone Rusty is here.
She sighed. Since Mums death, Id become more withdrawn, stubborn, wrapped up in my own world.
One autumn, Rusty grew weak, stopped eating, lay almost motionless in the kennel. I sat beside him, worried as if for a dear friend.
Whats wrong, old chap? I whispered. Are you sick?
He let out a feeble meow. I mustered the courage to drive him to the veterinary practice in the nearby town, spending nearly my entire pension on treatment, but I felt no regret.
The cats goodnatured, smart, gentle, the young vet said. Just old, immune system is weak.
Will he survive?
If cared for properly, hell pull through. Just keep him safe and on his meds.
Back home I set up a little infirmary on the veranda: old blankets, bowls of food and water, daily pills, temperature checks.
Get better, I urged. Life would be dull without you.
In those months Rusty became more than a pet; he was a companion, the only living thing that greeted me each day, the only one who seemed to need me as much as I needed him.
Tommy, back for the winter holidays, asked, Granddad, is Rusty better?
Yes, I answered, pointing to his cozy cushion. Look, hes sleeping soundly.
He lay curled, fur glossy, eyes bright. Healthy again.
Will he stay forever? Tommy wondered.
Where would he go? I stroked his head. Were together. He gives me company, I give him a home.
Did you ever feel lonely before Rusty?
I thought of the empty house after my wife passed, cooking soup for one, watching TV in silence, lying in a vacant bedroom.
It was lonely, dear, I admitted. Very lonely.
Now?
Now Im not. He greets me from the garden, purrs while I cook, rests on my knees when I watch the telly. Its better.
Tommy nodded; he understood how an animal could fill a void.
Granddad, what does Mum think?
My wife would have said its unnecessary expense, unnecessary fuss.
And you?
I think its not wasteful. Rusty brings me joy, and joy isnt waste.
Spring brought an unexpected visitor: Sophie, the niece of the late Agnes, a young woman with a small child.
Granddad, sorry to bother you, she said. Im Sophie, Agness niece. I heard your cat is still alive?
My heart thumped. Would I have to give Rusty up?
Its still here, I replied cautiously. What of it?
I wanted to ask after the funeral we left in a hurry and forgot about the cat. We feel embarrassed now and would like to take him with us, she explained.
I felt a tightness in my chest.
Youre probably tired of him, too many hassles
No, Im not tired. Hes a fine cat.
Sophie glanced at Rusty basking in the sun near the beds. Hes changed so much! He was thin and sick, now hes a handsome fellow.
Yes, I treated him, fed him well.
Thank you so much! Well cover any costs, she said earnestly.
Silence fell. Legally, the cat belonged to Agness family, but Rusty had become part of my life over the months.
May we see him? Sophie asked.
We approached. Rusty lifted his head, stared at the strangers, then padded over to me, rubbing his head against my leg.
Its odd, Sophie remarked. He doesnt seem to recognize me. I used to visit Aunt Agnes often
Time has passed, I replied. He probably forgot.
But I knew it wasnt forgetfulness. The cat had simply chosen a new caretaker the one who fed, healed, and loved him.
Perhaps he could stay with us? Sophie suggested suddenly. Hes grown used to you, and youre attached to him.
How? I asked, bewildered.
Its simple. We live in a flat with a small child. The cat is old, used to the outdoors. Moving would be cruel, she explained. He belonged to my aunt, now he belongs to us. You saved him twice from hunger, then from illness. Hes ours as much as hes yours.
I could hardly believe my luck.
Really? We could keep him?
Sure, as long as you need food or vet care, let us know. Well help.
After Sophie left, I sat on the garden step, running my hand over Rustys fur.
Stay with me, old friend. Forever, I whispered. He purred, closing his eyes in content.
Later that night Ethel called.
Dad, hows the cat? Is he still alive?
Hes alive, and officially mine now. The owners came, let me keep him.
Good. If hes gotten used to you
Ethel, you know what Ive realised?
Whats that?
A lonely person and a lonely cat rescue each other. I saved him from starvation; he saved me from loneliness.
Youre getting philosophical
Im not philosophising, Im speaking the truth. I now have a purpose waking up, preparing his food, giving his meds. And theres joy, a purr at the gate each morning.
She was quiet. Perhaps for the first time she understood why I needed that cat.
Dad, are you sure you wont move to the city now?
No, I wont. I have everything here the house, the garden, Rusty. Why would I trade it for city hustle?
Alright, so youre staying.
Staying. Were staying.
A year later, Rusty and I continue our measured routine. Mornings: breakfast, a walk among the rows. Daytime: chores, Rusty napping in the shade. Evenings: dinner, television, his head on my lap.
Neighbours now comment, Peter Whitfield, your cats become a real gentleman!
Its not just my cat, I reply. Were one to another.
Its true. We rescued each other an old solitary man and a stray cat no one wanted. In each other we found understanding, warmth, a reason to get up.
What more does one need for happiness?
Rusty purrs on my knee, and I think how grateful I am I didnt shoo that hungry wanderer away. Sometimes the most important decisions arent made with the mind, but with the heart, and they turn out to be the right ones.
