Flossie and Whiskers: A Rescue from the Skies
“Mum, can I have a sausage roll?”
“Oliver, love, would you like one with cheese, beef, or maybe a veggie one?”
“Cheese, please!”
“Alright, sweetheart, let’s get you one.”
The baker at the station slid the flaky pastry into a paper bag. Outside, the evening was frosty, the sky darkening as snow crunched underfoot. Mother and son walked through the icy park, where branches groaned under the weight of snow, and the crisp air sparkled like crushed diamonds.
“Mum…”
“What now?”
“It’s yucky! I want beef instead!”
“For goodness’ sake, Oliver! You just picked cheese! Spoilt rotten, you are,” the woman huffed, throwing her hands up.
With a sulky flick of his wrist, the boy tossed the rejected pastry. It arced through the air before landing beneath a snow-laden oak, half-hidden in the frozen undergrowth. The wind whispered sadly through the trees, as if mourning its fate.
But that sausage roll had a story. A long, hardworking, honest-to-goodness tale.
It began in summer, in the golden fields of Yorkshire. A tiny seed, nestled in a swaying stalk of wheat, ripened under the warm sun. Then came harvest—combines roaring, flour mills humming, sacks hauled to the bakery on Cherry Tree Lane. There, dough was rolled by hand, filled with sharp cheddar and fresh herbs, folded layer upon buttery layer.
The sausage roll emerged from the oven golden, flaky, and fragrant—steaming with warmth and care. But alas, fate had other plans. A whim, a careless toss, and now it lay abandoned, freezing into a lifeless lump. So much effort, so much love—gone to waste?
Whiskers was a street cat. Not a basement dweller, not a house pet, but a creature of the sky and snow. Grey, moderately fluffy, with emerald eyes, he was the elder statesman of the neighbourhood—four years on the pavement! A legend. He lived near the old flats, where the elderly ladies left him scraps every evening.
Indoor life wasn’t for Whiskers. Once, a family from the third floor took him in. But he knocked over teacups, raced shadows at midnight, howled at locked doors. He was wild at heart—a spirit uncaged.
Then came the horror. A man with a monstrous dog—a hulking brute with foam-flecked jaws—set the beast on him. Whiskers bolted, darting past cars, skidding across icy paths. He made it. Scrambled up a tree—higher, higher until his heart thundered in his chest.
But down? That was the problem. The branch was thin, fear was thick. He yowled for help. The first day, the grannies fretted below, waving catnip, calling the RSPCA: “Get him down, he’s stuck!”
“He’ll manage,” came the reply. “Cats always land on their feet.”
Day two. The blizzard came. People vanished. Whiskers licked snow for water, gnawed bark for hunger. Night stretched forever. Ice crusted his fur, froze him stiff. Day three—he stopped crying. Just sat. Silent. Exhausted. Limbs numb, breath shallow. He was fading.
Then, on the fourth day—inevitably—his claws slipped. Like a leaf in autumn, he tumbled down, spinning through snowflakes, landing chest-deep in a drift. He shuddered. Couldn’t rise. Jaw slack—no sound came. The end?
Then—a scent. Sharp, sudden, like sunlight breaking through clouds. Food.
He forced his eyes open. There, just inches away in the snow—Flossie. The sausage roll. Still warm inside, icy on the edges, but rich, buttery, glorious. Half-eaten by childish teeth, but enough.
Whiskers lunged. Bit. Chewed. Swallowed like a starving king. That humble pastry—flour, butter, cheese, born in a field, doomed to the bin—became his salvation. A second chance. A miracle.
He sprang up. Scanned the white world. The storm still howled, but warmth flickered in his veins. Shaking off snow, he bolted for the flats. To the grannies.
“Whiskers! Good heavens—he’s alive!” cried Mrs. Higgins, rushing onto the step.
“You daft thing! We rang everyone—the RSPCA, the fire brigade! No one came!”
The ladies fussed like hens, wrapping him in blankets, ushering him inside. And Whiskers? For once, he didn’t fight. He curled up in a corner. Warm. Grateful. Savouring his Flossie.
Meanwhile, back at Cherry Tree Lane, another batch of sausage rolls slid into the oven. And perhaps, one day, one of them would save another life too.
The end is never truly the end. Not if you’re a cat. And especially not if you’ve met a sausage roll.
