October was grim. Rain pounded the windows, the wind howled down the courtyard, and I sat at the kitchen table staring into nothing. For two years my days had run like clockwork: up at seven, breakfast at eight, the news at nine. Everything in its place slippers lined up by the door, mugs in the cupboard all facing the same way. That was how I lived after my wife died.
Beautiful, just beautiful, I muttered to myself. Ethel would have liked it.
In the evening, as habit dictated, I walked down to the corner shop for a loaf. Right on the steps outside the flat a scruffy orange cat was perched, fur peeling, one eye clouded, trembling as if from the cold rain or some deeper fear.
Well, hello there, mate, I said, sitting down beside him. You dont look too well.
The cat glanced at me as if to say, No time for jokes, old man. Life hurts.
I reached out. He didnt bolt. Instead, he allowed me to touch him, letting out a barely audible purr.
Youre a little ice cube, I chuckled, shaking my head.
Just then, footsteps clattered up the stairwell. Mrs. Hawthorne, my neighbour from the third floor, came down to take out the rubbish.
Arthur Bennett! she shouted. What are you doing with that creature?
Hes frozen, the poor thing.
And rightly so, she snapped. Nothing but fleas and disease.
I looked from her to the cat.
Come on, lets get you inside, I said quietly. Itll be warmer there.
Youre mad! she protested. Dont bring filth into the house!
What if he dies here? Itll be cleaner that way?
I lifted the cat and carried him back. He shuffled beside me, hesitant but not lagging. At the front door he stopped, sniffed the air.
Dont be shy, get in, I encouraged. This isnt the street.
First I led him to the bathroom. Warm water and a splash of shampoo made him close his eyes in bliss.
Poor thing, I murmured, examining his scars and missing fur. Who did this to you?
I fed him bits of sausage and cheese; they vanished in seconds.
Youll be called Ginger, I decided. Fits you nicely.
I draped an old towel over the radiator, and the cat curled up into a tight ball, falling asleep instantly. I watched him and thought, Now what? Food, a vet
But there was something else in the flat life.
One night wont hurt, I told myself. Well see what tomorrow brings.
The next morning I was jolted awake by a crash. The kitchen was a mess the herbs knocked over, soil on the floor, a mug shattered. Ginger sat primly licking his paw.
What have you done? I shouted.
He lifted his head, looked at me with indifferent eyes, as if to say good morning. Howd you sleep?
Enough, I sighed, weary. Ill put you back where you belong. Im not ready for this.
I stood amid the wrecked kitchen, feeling the world inside me boil over. Two years of pristine order, shattered in a single night. A proper mess.
Buddy, I said to the cat, I cant handle this. Im sorry.
I scooped him up and headed for the door, only to meet Mrs. Hawthorne at the landing, arms full of complaint.
Youve made a right mess of things! she declared, seeing the chaos. I told you this would end badly!
I glanced at her, then at Ginger, who pressed against my chest, purring softly.
Im not giving him away, I said suddenly.
What? You wont give him up?
Hell get used to this. Ill train him.
Hell tear the place apart!
Let him. This isnt a palace.
Mrs. Hawthorne huffed, slammed the door, and left. I was left with the cat and a ruined kitchen.
Alright, Ginger, I breathed deeply. Since youre here, were in this together. No more mischief, agreed?
I tidied the flat for half an hour while Ginger watched from the hearth.
See how it is? I said, sweeping. Im tired, youre just an audience. What can I ask of you?
He mewed, as if in agreement.
By lunchtime everything shone again. Yet as soon as I sat down, Ginger leapt onto the cupboard and knocked a stack of books to the floor.
Youre a menace! I muttered.
The anger faded quickly. Something inside clicked back into place.
That evening I walked to the shop for cat food. The shop assistant raised an eyebrow.
Got a new feline?
Looks that way.
And you keep a cat at home? No kidding!
Im still in shock, I admitted.
At home I poured the fresh food into his bowl. He ate with gusto.
Like it? I asked.
He rubbed against my leg.
A week later my routine was unrecognisable. I no longer rose to a clock; I rose to Gingers antics, his chest patrols. Evenings were spent playing tug with a string instead of watching the news.
Ethel would have laughed, I thought, seeing her tidy husband turned into a catdad.
The flat filled with cat toys, a scratching post, extra bowls. The dead silence that had settled after my wifes death was gone. The place breathed.
Mrs. Hawthorne still dropped by on schedule, sometimes with a comment, sometimes just to stare at Ginger.
Youve started a zoo here! she sniffed. Soon youll have roaches.
Roaches? No, its cleaner than most places, I laughed.
Shed sigh, shake her head, and leave. The flat now smelled of warmth, not sterile emptiness.
Three weeks in, I was painting the radiators on a stool when Ginger, darting under my arm, smudged paint with his paw, leaving white streaks all over.
You little artist! I chuckled, lifting him up.
A knock sounded at the door.
What now? Mrs. Hawthorne burst in.
Gingers making a masterpiece, I said, pointing to the splatters.
Outrageous! she exclaimed.
Come on, Mrs. Hawthorne, its beautiful! I replied.
A fourth week, I bought a new toy at the shop. The clerk sighed.
Youre spoiling that cat.
Hes worth it, I muttered.
Ginger greeted me at the door with a soft purr.
Missed you, I whispered. I missed you too.
He truly missed me. I rushed home as if someone were waiting. I realised I needed him.
The orange little tiger brought me back to life.
A month later Mrs. Hawthorne knocked, asking, May I take a photo? Ill send it to my granddaughter.
Sure, I said.
She snapped a picture; Ginger posed like a professional. She laughed a sound I hadnt heard from her in years.
After she left I thought, Maybe shes changed too. kinder, perhaps.
But the morning greeted me with the same unsettling silence.
Ginger? I called, scrambling up.
No answer, no familiar thump on the chest. Nothing.
Where are you, lad?
I checked under the sofa, in the cupboard, behind the fridge. Empty.
On the kitchen counter lay an untouched bowl of food. My heart clenched.
This cant be, I whispered, voice trembling.
I searched the whole flat, twice, then again. No sign of him.
Balcony! I remembered.
I bolted up to the landing. The balcony was glazed, but the window had been left ajar yesterday maybe Id forgotten to shut it.
The latch was indeed open, and on the floor lay shards of a terracotta pot.
Lord, I muttered, he could have fallen!
The fourth floor, concrete below.
I dressed hastily and rushed outside, combing every shrub, every flowerbed, checking under cars, in the cellars.
Ginger! Where are you, you little rogue? I shouted.
Passersby turned, pity in their eyes.
Sir, are you alright? a young mother pushing a pram asked.
My cats gone I choked out.
Maybe hes just out for a walk? It happens.
Im not sure. I dont know
I scoured the whole block, but Ginger was nowhere.
Exhausted, I returned home, sat at the kitchen table, staring at the untouched food bowl. My heart ached.
A knock. Mrs. Hawthorne.
Arthur, you were shouting outside whats happened?
My Gingers vanished, I said hoarsely.
How vanished?
I woke up and he was gone. No trace. He could have fallen, run off, I dont know
She looked around.
Did you look in the basements? she asked.
Yes.
Maybe someone took him in? Sheltered him?
The thought made my chest tighter.
I dont know, Golly, I said, finally using her first name. My heads a mess.
Dont beat yourself up, she clapped a hand on my shoulder. Hell turn up. Cats are clever, theyll manage.
Her words brought little comfort.
That night I lay awake, ears straining for a familiar meow, but only silence answered.
By dawn I knew I couldnt live without him. In the past month Ginger had become part of me.
The second day of the hunt I roamed the neighbourhood from sunrise to sunset, showing anyone a photo.
Seen this orange cat? White chest? I asked.
People shook their heads. In a pet shop the clerk offered:
Want to put an ad up? On the internet, on lampposts?
I dont know what to do, I admitted.
Ill help, she said, smiling. Give me the picture, Ill spread it.
Soon an online post read: Missing cat Ginger. Peace Street. Reward offered. No calls came.
On the third day I was almost resigned, sitting by the window, staring blankly, thinking how quickly life can turn upside down.
A month ago everything was predictable. Then Ginger arrived chaos, warmth, laughter. Then he disappeared, leaving a hole deeper than before.
Seems thats how it goes for old men, I muttered, looking at my reflection. We arent meant to be happy, just to sit quietly and fade.
But my heart objected. I wanted the rumble of a purr again, to feel needed.
In the late afternoon of the third day I was sipping tea mechanically when a faint sound reached me a meow, far off.
At first I thought it was imagination, but it came again, plaintive.
I sprang up, ran to the stairwell.
Ginger?! I called.
Silence.
I rushed up another floor.
Ginger! Here?
Then I saw him, shivering in the gap between the windows on the second floor, weak and dirty but alive.
Oh God I whispered, almost in tears. How did you get up there?
He was thin, covered in grime, but when I cradled him, he let out a soft purr.
Tears streamed down my face the first in two years.
Little fool why did you do this to me? I found you, I finally found you
I gave him warm milk and a little food. By evening he perked up, even batting a paw playfully.
Good as new, I said, smiling through tears. All right then.
Now its January. Three months have passed since Ginger moved in, and a month since he vanished and returned.
I stand at the window, warming my hands. Ginger lies on the sill, stretched out in a sunspot, plump and content.
Youve become a proper house cat, lad, I joke. He merely purrs, eyes halfclosed.
A knock. Mrs. Hawthorne peeks in.
May I come in? she asks.
Come on in, Golly, I reply.
Shes practically a guest now, bringing tea and little gifts for the cat even a crocheted mouse.
Hows our king? she coos, stroking Ginger.
Hes living like royalty. Eats, sleeps, causes a bit of panic now and then.
And you? No regrets about bringing him home?
I glance around the cosy chaos toys, extra bowls, a bit of fur on the carpet. No order, but theres life.
Never once, I answer honestly.
I think I might get a kitten myself, she smiles. Things have been dull lately.
Youll need a vet, vaccinations and all that, I warn.
You know the drill, she says.
Im learning, I wink.
In the evenings we sit on the couch, I with the telly, Ginger asleep on my lap, stretching and rolling onto his back.
Remember when I tried to toss you out? I chuckle, scratching his fluffy belly. What a fool I was. I almost missed the best thing.
Outside the January wind bites, but inside its warm and livedin.
I watch the sleeping cat and realise Im truly alive again, not just existing.
Tomorrow morning the orange alarm clock with whiskers will rouse me, and that will be pure happiness.
Sleep well, lad, I whisper.
And I drift off to the soft rumble of his purr, the finest lullaby I could ever ask for.
