Stripes was perched by the gate, just waiting. Day after day. A week The first snow fell and he was still there, his little paws frozen, his belly growling with hunger, but he didnt move.
Someone finally spotted him in early spring, April. The snow was still draping the shady corners, but patches of green were pushing through the sunny bits. A tiny greywhite kitten had curled up against the warm pipe by the corner shop, trying to stay cozy.
Look, Mum! shouted a sevenyearold girl, eyes bright. A kitten!
Her mother grimaced, pursing her lips. Lets keep going, Harriet. Hes probably dirty and full of fleas.
But Harriet was already on her knees, reaching out. The kitten didnt bolt, only let out a soft whine.
Please, Mum, can we take him home? she begged.
No, no, no! We rent a flat and pets arent allowed! her mother snapped.
Just then, Mrs. Thompson, who was passing by, stopped. She saw the little boyish cat and the tearstreaked face of the girl.
Where were you planning to take him? she asked gently.
Home but Mum wont let us, Harriet sniffled.
Mrs. Thompson thought for a moment. Her country house had a rat problem, and a kitten like that could grow into a fine hunter.
You know what, she said softly, I have a cottage with a big garden. Hed be safe there.
Harriets face lit up with hope.
Really? What will you call him?
Stripes, Mrs. Thompson replied quickly. Hes got those little bands on his back.
And so the greywhite kitten with amber eyes and an eager trust landed in her cottage. The moment anyone petted him, he started to purr and pressed his nose against the hand.
He turned out to be a natural mousecatcher. Within a week hed cleared the garden of every rodent. The owners were thrilled it was both handy and heartwarming.
Stripes gave it his all. Every Saturday hed meet them at the gate, curl up at their feet, as if hed found his family, his whole world.
He thought that would go on forever.
But autumn changed everything. In November Mrs. Thompson and her husband Mark came back for the last time to shut the cottage down for winter.
What are we going to do with Stripes? Mrs. Thompson asked, stuffing cans into a bag.
Nothing, Mark waved him off. Hell manage. Cats belong outside, theyll pull through the winter on their own.
And they left.
Stripes stayed by the gate, waiting. Day after day, a week, then longer. The first snow fell again. His paws were numb, his stomach clenched, yet he kept waiting. Theyd promised to return. They would, he believed.
But his strength faded, and with it his hope.
One chilly morning a hoarse voice called out, Hey, lad, you frozen solid?
Standing over him was Ian Hughes, the retired neighbour from the next plot. He lived alone in his little cottage, the only one staying over the winter. His hands were warm, and instead of fear he exuded a solid, homely comfort.
Come inside, the old man said quietly. Youll warm up.
Stripes shuffled in, and suddenly realised not everyone was the same.
Ian, in his sixties, had settled into a slow pace. His kids were grown, his wife had passed three years ago, and now it was just him, his memories, and the quiet of the countryside.
Winter life here was a habit: the city was noisy and strangers, but at his cottage there was snow outside, a crackling fire, and peace.
Ian wrapped Stripes in an old sweater and led him inside.
Alright, mate, he muttered, setting a pot of milk on the stove. Tell me how you ended up out there in the cold?
The kitten just stared, amber eyes full of sorrow.
Right, they left you. People, eh? God forgive em, Ian sighed.
At first Stripes hid by the stove, only daring to eat when Ian wasnt looking, as if waiting for a trap. Ian didnt rush him. He left out a bowl of food and spoke lowly:
Heres some porridge. Not a feast, but itll do. No need to be shy.
Or:
Snows piled up good thing were inside, isnt it?
After a week the cat grew bolder, eating beside Ian, then edging closer, and a few days later he leapt onto the old mans knees.
Well, look at that, Ian laughed. You finally trusted me! Lets get to know each other properly.
He scratched Stripes behind the ears; the cat purred, first hesitant, then louder, more confident.
Good lad, Ian said. Now everythings right.
Mornings started with Ian waking to find Stripes waiting at the foot of the bed. Breakfast was shared. Afternoons hed read the newspaper while the cat perched on the windowsill. Sometimes theyd step out together to shove the snow, clear the garden paths. Stripes would chase after Ian, dive into drifts, and bat at snowflakes.
Youve forgotten how to play, Ian chuckled. Dont worry, youll pick it up again.
Evenings were filled with Ians stories about his children, his late cat Murdoch whod died a year before, and the little joys of life. Stripes listened, purring as if he understood every word.
By New Years Eve, Stripes was settled. Hed nap at Ians feet, greet the door when his owner returned, and once even caught a mouse, proudly presenting his prize.
A proper hunter! Ian praised. No need for more weve got enough food.
Winter sped by, February turned to March, and one crisp morning a car rolled up to the gate.
Stripes tensed, darted to the window. Ian peered out, his brow furrowing.
Theyre here, he said low. Your previous owners.
Out of the car stepped Mrs. Thompson and Mark, looking bright and chatty as they surveyed the garden.
Wheres our Stripes? shouted Mrs. Thompson, calling out, Come here, you little hunter!
The cat trembled, pressed his body against the glass.
Dont you want to go back? Ian asked quietly.
Stripes looked at Ian, and in those golden eyes the old man read the answer without a word.
Alright, mates, Ian said, nodding, theyre coming for you. They still think you belong to them.
A halfhour later the door burst open with shouts.
Ian Hughes! wailed Mrs. Thompson. We know the cats with you! Let him out this instant!
Ian rose slowly from his armchair. Stripes scuttled under the bed, squeezing into the far corner.
Stay quiet, Ian whispered, dont show yourself.
The door swung wide. Mrs. Thompson stood tall and confident, Mark hovered behind, looking uneasy.
Good day, Ian said dryly.
Wheres our cat? Mrs. Thompson demanded. The neighbours said youre keeping him!
What cat? Ian replied calmly.
Dont play games! Greywhite, Stripes. We left him out in the autumn, thought hed manage, but looks like hes with you now.
Left him in November? In the cold? Out on his own? Ians eyes hardened.
Mark stammered, Hes a cat he should survive.
Survive? Ian stepped forward. A house cat, out in the winter? Do you realise what youre saying?
Enough moralising! Mrs. Thompson snapped. We want him back. The mice are multiplying. Hand him over.
No, Ian said simply.
What does no mean? she retorted, fuming. Hes ours!
Its yours? Ian chuckled hoarsely. And where were you when he was shivering at the gate, halfstarved? When I dragged him inside?
We didnt know Mark muttered.
Didnt know or didnt want to know? Ians voice rose. You petted him in summer, tossed him in winter like an old coat!
Who are you to lecture us? Mrs. Thompson snapped. Hes our cat, and if you dont give him back
What then? Take us to court for an animal you abandoned to die?
At that moment a familiar head poked out from behind Ians leg. Stripes peered out, hearing the raised voices.
There he is! Mrs. Thompson exclaimed, delighted. Stripes, come here! Meow!
But the cat stayed glued to Ian, not moving.
Come on! she urged, stepping forward. Take him with us!
Stripes slipped back under the bed.
You see? Ian said quietly. Hes made his choice, and its not in your favour.
Thats nonsense! Mrs. Thompson lunged. Just give him to me!
I wont, Ian replied firmly.
Who are you to tell us what to do?! she shouted. Mark, say something!
Mark remained silent, guilt plain on his face.
Whats happening here? a new voice interjected.
Mrs. Patel, the neighbour from next door, walked up to the fence. Oh, youre back then? Want the cat back?
Of course! Its ours! Mrs. Thompson cried.
Yours? Patel smiled wryly. And who fed him all winter? Who treated his cold?
We didnt ask, Mark muttered.
Exactly, Patel said sharply. You didnt ask because you didnt care! Summer toy, winter rubbish!
Other neighbours gathered, forming a small crowd that largely sided with Ian.
Your conscience is gone, muttered Mrs. Green. Abandoning a creature to the frost!
Right, laughed Mr. Brown, waving his hand. Stripes now belongs to Ian. And thats proper.
What if we take him by force? Patel asked, eyes narrowed.
Let em try, Ian replied, his voice low.
Mrs. Thompson glared. This isnt over! She stormed to her car, Mark following meekly.
No one saw them again. Either guilt or common sense settled the dispute. The neighbours stood together, and Stripes clearly showed where his true home was.
By summer, the Thompson garden was overrun with mice again.
Just as we thought, grumbled Mr. Brown passing by, they wanted a working cat, got a mouse kingdom instead.
Ians life took on a new brightness. Each morning he greeted Stripes with a cheerful Morning, mate, boiled porridge, bought fresh milk, and watched his cats fur shine and eyes sparkle. The cat felt like the king of his little realm.
In the summer, Ians grandchildren visited, delighted by the cat, especially the little ones who spent the whole day playing with Stripes.
Dad, his daughter said as she left, Im glad you took him in. You both look happy.
Indeed, Ian smiled, watching the cat wave goodbye to the guests. We are.
When the next winter snow fell the same snow that almost was his last Stripes dashed out to the garden, chasing flakes, no longer fearful.
Now thats proper, Ian said, smiling from the window. Everythings right now.
Come spring, when the last snowdrift melted, the Thompsons put a For Sale sign on their garden gate. Stripes walked past, indifferent. He had more important things to do like waiting for Ian to return from his fishing trips.
