Basil sat at the gate and waited. Day after day, two days, a week The first snow fell and he kept his place. His paws were numb, his belly growled with hunger, yet he did not move.
They found him early in spring, in April. Snow still clung to the shaded corners, while sunlight coaxed tender shoots from the earth. A tiny greywhite kitten had curled up against a warm pipe outside the village shop, trying to fend off the chill.
Look, Mother! a sevenyearold girl shouted with delight. A kitten!
Her mother pursed her lips and said, Lets keep going, Ethel. Hes bound to be dirty and full of fleas.
But Ethel had already dropped to her knees and extended a hand. The kitten did not bolt, only let out a plaintive squeak.
Please, Mum, lets take him home! she pleaded.
No, absolutely not! We rent a flat and pets are forbidden, her mother replied.
Mrs. Green, who was passing by, stopped when she heard the exchange. She glanced at the childwideeyed and trembling with tears.
Where were you planning to take him? she asked.
Home Ethel sniffled. But Mum wont allow it.
Mrs. Green thought for a moment. Her country cottage was overrun with mice. A tiny cat would grow into a fine hunter.
You know what, she said gently, I have a cottage with a garden. Hell be safe there.
Ethels face lit up. Really? What shall we call him?
Basil, Mrs. Green replied promptly. Hes striped, after all.
Thus Basil entered their home: a greywhite furball with amber eyes and a trustful heart. The moment a hand brushed his back, he began to purr and pressed his nose against the palm.
He turned out to be a nimble mouser. Within a week he had vanquished every rodent on the property, to the delight of his new owners.
Basil gave his all. Every Saturday he met them at the gate, curled up at their feet, as if he knew this was his family, his life.
He imagined it would stay that way forever.
Autumn, however, rewrote the story. In November Mrs. Green and her husband, Mr. Green, came to shut the cottage for winter.
What shall we do with Basil? Mrs. Green asked, stuffing tins into a bag.
Nothing, Mr. Green waved off. Hell manage. Cats belong outdoors; they survive the cold on their own.
And they left.
Basil remained at the gate, waiting. Day after day, another day, a week.
When the first snow fell, his paws were icy, his stomach twisted with famine, yet he stayed put, convinced that they would return. He clung to the promise, though his strength ebbed and his hope melted away.
One bleak afternoon a hoarse voice called, Hey there, lad, are you freezing?
Standing above him was Thomas Whitaker, a retired farmer who lived alone in the neighbouring cottage. His hands were warm, and the air around him smelled not of dread but of hearth and home.
Come in with me, the old man murmured. Youll warm up.
Basil followed, and in that instant he learned a simple truth: not all people are the same.
Thomas, well past sixty, moved at a leisurely pace. Children had grown and moved away, his wife had passed three years prior, and the cottage was his solitary companion, filled with memories.
Winter here was a comfort: the city was cramped, neighbours strangers, while the countryside offered silence, snowdrifted windows, and the crackle of a fire.
Thomas slipped an old sweater over Basils shivering frame and ushered him inside.
Well then, old chap, he chuckled, setting a pot of milk on the stove. What led you to sit out in the frost?
Basil merely stared with vast amber eyes, his gaze laced with longing.
I see, Thomas nodded. They abandoned you. Poor things God forgive them.
In the first days Basil hid by the stove, eating only when the old mans back was turned, as if waiting for a trick.
Thomas never rushed him. He left a bowl of porridge out, speaking softly, Heres some grub. Not a feast, but itll keep you alive. No need to be shy.
Or, Snows piled upgood thing were warm inside, isnt it?
After a week Basil grew bolder, first nibbling in Thomass presence, then edging closer, and soon he was perched on the old mans lap.
Ah, there you are, Thomas laughed. At last youve made up your mind. Lets get to know each other properly.
He stroked Basil behind the ears, and the cats purr deepened, gaining confidence.
Good lad, Thomas said. Things will be fine now.
Mornings began with Thomas waking to find Basil waiting by the bed. Breakfast was shared, afternoons spent with the newspaper while the cat perched on the windowsill. Occasionally they ventured out together to clear the drive, Basil darting after snowflakes and tumbling into drifts.
Youve forgotten how to play, Thomas chuckled, but youll pick it up again soon enough.
Evenings were filled with Thomass storiesabout his children, about a cat named Marmalade who had died a year earlier. He was a loyal fellow, fifteen years with me. When he went, I thought Id never have another.
Basil listened, his purr matching the rhythm of Thomass words.
By New Years, Basil was settled. He slept at Thomass feet, greeted him at the door, and once even captured a mouse, presenting it proudly.
A true hunter! Thomas exclaimed. No need for more; we have enough food.
Winter rushed by; February turned into March. One bright morning a car rumbled up the drive, its engine stirring the crisp air.
Basils ears pricked; he raced to the window. Thomas looked up, brows furrowed.
Theyve arrived, he said, his voice low. Your former owners.
From the vehicle stepped Mrs. Green and Mr. Green, chattering excitedly as they inspected the garden.
Wheres our Basil? Mrs. Green called out, her voice echoing. Come here, you little mouser!
Basil pressed his body against the glass, trembling.
Dont you want to go back to them? Thomas whispered.
Basil met Thomass gaze, and in the old mans eyes he read the answer without a word.
Very well, Thomas said, theyll have their say, but they left you out here to die. They think you belong to them still.
A halfhour later the door burst open with frantic knocks.
Thomas Whitaker! shrieked Mrs. Green. We know the cat is with you! Open the door at once!
Thomas rose slowly from his chair. Basil darted under the bed, curling into the farthest corner.
Stay quiet, Thomas murmured. Dont show yourself.
The door swung wide. Mrs. Green stood tall and assertive; Mr. Green lingered behind, looking uneasy.
Good day, Thomas said curtly.
Where is our cat? Mrs. Green demanded. The neighbours told us you have him!
What cat? Thomas replied evenly.
Dont play games! Hes greywhite, Basil. We left him in November, thinking hed manage, but now hes with you.
Left him? Thomass eyes hardened. In November? In the cold?
Mr. Green stammered, Hes a cat; he should survive.
Survive? Thomas stepped forward. A housecat left out in a British winter? Do you understand the cruelty?
Mrs. Green snapped, Enough moralising! We need him; the mice are everywhere. Give him back.
No, Thomas answered simply.
What does no mean? she retorted. Hes ours!
Its yours? Thomas laughed hoarsely. Where were you when he shivered at the gate, starving? Where were you when I brought the halfdead thing inside?
We didnt know Mr. Green muttered.
Didnt know, or didnt want to know? Thomass voice rose. You petted him in summer, then tossed him aside like an old boot when frost set in!
Who are you to lecture us? Mrs. Green flared. If you dont give him back
What then? Thomas cut in. Take us to court for abandoning an animal to die?
At that moment a familiar face appeared by the fence. Mrs. Penny Hart, the neighbour, stepped forward.
So youve returned, she said, squinting. And you want the cat back?
Yes! Its ours! Mrs. Green cried.
Yours? Penny chuckled bitterly. Who fed him all winter? Who bandaged his cold?
We never asked Mr. Green confessed.
Exactly, Penny retorted. You never asked because you didnt care. Summer toy, winter trash!
Other neighbours gathered, forming a small circle around the gate. Most sided with Thomas.
Conscience seems absent, Mrs. Ellis declared. Leaving a creature out in the frost!
Lets be clear, Mr. Clarke waved his hand. Basil now belongs to Thomas. Thats proper.
Would you try to snatch him by force? Penny asked, eyes sharp.
Let them try, Thomas replied gravely.
Mrs. Green glared, This isnt over! She stormed to her car; Mr. Green shuffled after her, head bowed.
No one saw them again. Whether guilt or pragmatism drove them away, the villagers stood firm, and Basil had shown, without a word, where his true home lay.
By summer the Greens garden was overrun with mice again.
Just as we thought, old Mr. Clarke muttered, passing by. Wanted a working cat, got a mouse kingdom instead.
Thomass life changed too. He found purpose in the small pleasures: greeting Basil each morning, cooking porridge, buying fresh milk.
Basil thrived; his coat shone, his eyes sparkled. He felt master of his domain.
In summer Thomass children visited, marveling at the cat, and soon the grandchildren were the ones chasing Basil around the garden.
My dad did well to take him in, his daughter said as she prepared to leave. You both look happy.
Yes, Thomas smiled, watching Basil escort the guests to the door. We are.
When another winter snow fellthe very same that had once threatened to be his endBasil bounded into the yard, leaping through the flakes, no longer knowing fear.
Now its right, Thomas said, smiling from the window. All is well.
Come spring, with the last snow melt, a For Sale sign appeared on the Greens plot. Basil passed by, indifferent. He had other matterslike waiting for Thomas to return from his fishing trip.
