Let this night be his last, and may it end with a flash of beauty. He will stare at his love, wish her a long life, then curl up by her window and slip into his dreams, never to return
He survived three winters in a row no exaggeration. For a stray cat on the streets of London, that kind of endurance is almost miraculous; few alley cats live that long.
He was born in a modest terraced house, next to his mother, a pampered tabby who trusted people. Then everything changed in an instant.
The owners were killed in a crash, and their grownup son, a man who despised cats and guarded his home with a vicious bulldog, decided the extra tenants had to go. Without a second thought he tossed the whole feline family onto the pavement.
The first winter claimed everyone mother, brothers, sisters. Hunger took some, the frost killed others, dogs maimed a few, and cars ran over the rest. Only one survived a ginger kitten.
A caretaker named Mr. Pritchard spotted the tiny orange lump, snatched it from the cold, hauled it down to the basement and set it beside the hot water pipes. He fed it through the bitter months, and the kitten lived.
No one gave him a name. Through the cracked basement window he would wriggle out, learning the streets harsh lessons stay clear of dogs, hide from humans, rummage bins, fool hunger.
The second winter came alone. The original caretaker was sacked for drunkenness and replaced by a stern new warden who stopped feeding the cat, though he didnt break the window. That was enough; the ginger survived another year, learning to fight for food and for life.
The third winter was the cruelest. Every basement window was now glazed shut. Where could he go? Where could he hide from the icy nights?
He had to find a new refuge. The basements were sealed, but in one courtyard he discovered a forgotten pit where an old heating trench once ran. Hot mains pipe lay just beneath the earth, hidden by thick hedges that the locals never noticed.
He piled rags and old clothes into the hollow, made a nest. Overhead, balcony eaves shielded some snow, yet the pipes heat melted the flakes, and damp, biting wind seeped to his bones
He made it through the season, emerging a gaunt specter: skin hanging in strips, eyes constantly on edge. By street standards, old age struck early he was already considered an elder. Food now came only as meagre scraps.
Then someone uncovered the pit. Before the first autumn downpours, a worker decided to fill it in.
He arrived, as always, to spend the night on the pipe, and saw fresh earth being shoveled in. He settled opposite a small mound and stared. It was, in effect, a death sentence. He knew no other shelter would appear, and the few that remained were already claimed by other cats.
He curled up in a damp heap of fallen leaves, shivering, but clung to life. And in that fragile state, on the very brink, he fell in love.
Yes, he really fell in love.
He gave himself no false hope. She was a stunningly beautiful cat, a sleek grey who lived in a flat on the ground floor. She adored perching on the windowsill, watching the world outside. He, from the cold pavement below, would watch her, and somewhere inside, amidst the chill, something warmed.
One night he gathered courage: he scrambled up a tree, leapt onto a wide metal awning beneath her window. The owners had once used that awning in winter to store provisions, but it now lay empty. From then on he visited often, sitting, gazing at the feline behind the glass, sighing.
He asked for nothing. He simply admired. Sometimes she would hop down to her food bowls, and he would swallow his saliva not from envy, but from a raw, animal emptiness.
He decided that if fate were to claim him this winter, let it happen here, by her window. He would curl into a ball, watch her, and depart not in terror, but in peace.
He even smiled at the thought: a thin orange cat, quietly dying beside his beloved windowsill.
One evening the lady of the flat spotted him and shouted, waving her arms. He bolted, then returned. And returned again.
The flats male owner, a man named Arthur Whitaker, saw this and didnt chase him away. He looked the ginger cat in the eye and saw there everything hope, pain, weariness, devotion to their domestic beauty. He could not send him off.
Instead, he began slipping a morsel of meat, a mince pie, a sausage behind the window. The cat ate. One night Arthur approached the glass, and the trembling orange cat lifted his paw, pressed it to the pane and let out a plaintive meow.
The house cat looked first at the man, then at the ginger. Surprise flickered in her gaze.
You know, Arthur whispered, she wont tolerate a second cat. I asked for a kitten she refused.
He dropped his hands. The ginger understood. He didnt resent it. This house was not for him. It was for pedigreed, clean, young, pampered pets.
That night the cold was especially biting. He was drenched, shivering, and suddenly realised there was no point left no leaves to rustle, no hidden corners, no endless fight for survival.
If the end was inevitable, let it be here, beside the window from which his little miracle watched.
He resolved: let this night be his final one.
He wanted to meet his end with dignity. One last look at the cat that held his heart, a soft meow of warmth in her direction, as if wishing her happiness and long life then vanish. First, he would finish the last bite the man had left for him; when she retreated to her cosy nest, he would curl into a tight ball at the cold glass and drift into a sleep from which he would never awaken.
Snow began to fall unexpectedly, and the house cat delighted in watching the white flakes swirl outside the pane and settle on the ginger cat perched outside. She found the dance amusing; her eyes sparkled at the snows ballet. She could not have imagined that this beauty was slowly killing the creature who watched her through the icy glass. She knew nothing of frost, nothing of the ache of freezing from within.
Meanwhile the ginger cat stiffened. The sausage hed gobbled an hour earlier gave a last flicker of warmth, but it faded with his dwindling strength. The wind cut like a knife, the cold gnawed his bones, and even sitting upright grew painful. He still stared at her, but he understood he could not hold on much longer.
He prepared for this farewell as if it were the most momentous event of his life. He wanted to go out beautifully: one final glance at his beloved, a gentle meow of goodwill, a mental wish for her long, warm days. The plan was simple: finish the last treat the man tossed, wait until she slipped back into the flat, then, curled into a tiny ball on the frosty glass, step into his dreams a place with no cold, no hunger, only endless sleep.
The snowfall grew heavier, and the cat on the warm windowsill watched, entranced, as the flakes drifted onto the gingers back. For her it was a pretty spectacle, almost a game. She never realised that beneath the sparkle lay death. She never understood that snow is frost, wind is pain, hunger is torture. She never knew what a street truly was.
The ginger, outside, grew rigid. The lingering heat from the sausage slipped away. Every breath grew heavier, his paws went numb, his tail hardened with ice. He still gazed at her, but his body was surrendering.
The cat kept watching her mysterious suitor, while he could no longer keep his spine straight. His back trembled, his eyes fluttered shut. He lifted his gaze for one last time, pressed his chilled nose to the glass, and, without waiting for her to leave, curled into a tight, shivering ball.
His tiny body quivered. The cold chewed every bone. He tried to breathe into his side, hoping to spark a sliver of heat, and for a moment thought it helped. Yet the frost was stronger, stealing his life slowly but surely.
A strange sensation washed over him: the cold ceased to bite. A sleepy, soft blanket of drowsiness fell over him like a coat. He decided not to fight. The end was near.
He opened his eyes once more and saw her, the very cat whose ledge hed scaled, the reason hed clung to life all those days. How beautiful, he thought. What could be sweeter? A gentle death
His head drooped, his eyes closed, and he imagined the window opening, kind hands lifting him, stroking him, whispering tender words. Beside him stood the cat that had made his heart race, and together they walked toward a warm bowl of food.
A lovely dream, flickered through his mind.
The house cat continued to stare at the snow that now covered the ginger. She meowed softly, a questioning note, hoping he would move. She tapped the glass with her paw. No answer. She meowed louder, then pounded the pane as if shouting, Why wont you answer?! But the cold had already frozen his body; he could not hear her. He slipped into silence.
Snow turned his form into a white mound, a shroud over him.
Whats that shes shouting about? a woman in the flat muttered irritably. Looking at the snow, is she?
The man, Arthur, rose from the sofa, glanced at the window. The cat was furiously pawing at the glass. Something clicked in his mind. He remembered her eyes, and his own memory of the ginger.
He rushed to the window, threw open the shutters despite his wifes frantic cries, What are you doing? Close it! Are you mad?
But he didnt hear. The cat helped, leaping, screeching. The window swung wide, wind and snow poured in.
He grabbed a small, frostbitten bundle from the corner of the courtyard, a tiny frozen body, and carried it to the bathroom. The cat followed, the woman trailing behind.
He filled the tub with warm water, gently placed the shivering ginger inside, and began washing him. The house cat perched on the edge, watching his face, eyes wet with feline tears.
Im doing what I can, he whispered, massaging the cats frail chest, trying to coax life back. The woman stood at the doorway, silent.
He pleaded, Please come back
The cat cried with him.
Suddenly a distant voice seemed to call him back, as if from another world. He wondered, Why? Its so peaceful there. Why return to pain?
Then he heard her voicethe one that had driven him each day, the one that made him cling to life.
Could it be shes close? he thought, trying to open his eyes. They lifted slowly, heavy as lead, and finally he saw a man, flushed with emotion, and beside him, the grey cat, alive, eyes shining with joy.
Eat! the man shouted, cradling the damp ginger to his chest.
The house cat leapt onto the floor, spun around, meowing triumphantly.
Get a towel! A hairdryer! Quickly! the man called to his wife.
They wrapped the ginger in soft towels, dried him with a blowdryer, whispered gentle words. The cat sniffed him, nudged his cheek.
He thought, This cant be real. Its too beautiful to be true. Id have died for this.
The woman poured warm milk into a bowl. The ginger lapped it, a hot wave coursing through his throat. He coughed, nudged the bowl with a paw, then, with both paws, began to lick furiously.
Hell live, the man declared confidently.
The house cat curled against him.
Whats his name? the wife asked after a pause.
The name? the man grinned. Hes called Loved. Thats his nameLoved.
The cat meowed, as if in agreement.
Now Loved lives in that flat. His coat gleams, his tail is fluffy and regal, his eyes calm and grateful.
Together they sit on the windowsill, watching the street. Loved sometimes remembers the cold side of the glass. He sighs heavily. Then she rests her paw on his shoulder, as if saying, Youre home now. Youre ours.
Below, the alleys still teem with those who never made it inside. They still hope to survive another winter.
They hope
