15October2025
Today I walked into the Oakwood Animal Rescue, a bustling stonewashed building in the heart of Birmingham. There were no separate rooms; the whole place was one large, noisy hall. Along the left brick wall stood rows of cages for cats, while on the right the dogs were confined in their own pens. Staff hurried past the enclosures every few minutessome lugging bags of kibble, others bearing fresh rags, and a few dragging buckets of water to refill the drinkers.
Visitors came in steady streams. A quiet, modest familya gaunt mother, a gaunt father and their thin little sonmeandered from cage to cage, studying the animals for ages. A young couple whispered together near the cat pens. An elderly gentleman with a cane strolled slowly past the dog pens, eyes soft and observant. And I, just having crossed the threshold, was overwhelmed by the smells, the clamor, and the sheer number of creatures.
The first pen housed Molly, a tiny mutt with a wildly wagging tail. She thrashed a rubber duck with fierce determination, paying no mind to the people milling about. Not far from her was a pen containing Rex, a fierce black dog whose eyes had clearly seen too much. Beside Rex crouched a smiling young woman in a bright puffer coat, speaking quietly to the dog as if trying to befriend him. Across the room lay a fullscale cat exhibitionevery breed, colour and size imaginable.
On a pink cushion slept Luna, a sleek white cat. Occasionally she would peel open a yellow eye, watch anyone who approached, then close it again. Hanging from the bars nearby was Milo, a blackandginger kitten with an oversized head, reminiscent of a cartoon houseelf. He let out soft mews, flopped onto his back, rose and sauntered lazily to the corner where his water and food bowls sat. The moment he saw me, Milo changed direction in an instant and darted toward me.
Youre a character, I muttered, slipping a finger through the bars to scratch Milo behind the ear. The bigheaded little fellow narrowed his eyes, purred contentedly and, as if playing, nibbled my finger gently.
My mum, look how funny he is, whispered Oliver, the skinny boy, as he ran to the cage with Milo. His parents, arriving a moment later, exchanged a look and shook their heads in unison.
Hes really tiny, Oliver, his mother murmured. Oliver grunted something incomprehensible, gave Milo a fleeting, pleading glance and drifted on. I sensed his parents wanted a dog, so they kept steering their son away from the cat cages. Milo, however, didnt seem to mind who petted him. The little fellow purred loudly, rubbing his head against my finger alternately with his left and right sides, even pausing to gnash his teeth in a way that made me smile.
Maybe this one? I turned, noticing that Oliver had stopped at the farright corner of the shelter, a dimly lit nook. Hes big and handsome.
Oh no! his mother shook her head immediately. Lets look at the dogs instead. And that oldtimer over there
Old, small Oliver huffed, then, with a sigh, followed his parents toward the dog pens. His complaints turned to giggles the moment he reached the shelters favourite residenta tiny bearlike dog named Bear. Bear waddled clumsily in his enclosure, licking every finger that hovered over his head. Even the silent old gentleman smiled at the fluffy bundle, which was busy tugging at a soft toy in the corner. I became curious about the animal hidden in the darkest corner, the one that had frightened Olivers mother. I left Milo to his play and slipped toward that shadowy pen, inhaling sharply as I approached.
Inside, on a grey blanket, lay an elderly cat. Just the sort of common yard cat you might spot in any neighbourhood, yet his bearing was that of a dignified gentleman approaching the end of his days. He didnt pace, didnt meow, and made no effort to attract attention. He simply lay there, eyes veiled in a greytinted haze, purring barely audibly. When I drew near, he fell silent, gave a soft snort, and let out a almost human sigh. Then, lowering his head onto his thin paws, he closed his eyes.
Thats Archie, I whispered, feeling a shiver run down my spine as a cheerful male voice called from behind. I turned to see one of the shelters volunteersa freckled young man with a badge that read Barry.
Whats his story? I asked quietly, trying not to disturb the old cats peace.
Nothing much. Just an old timer, Barry replied, opening the cage and topping Archie’s bowl with a scoop of food. Archie gave another little snort, rose slowly from the blanket, and shuffled toward his bowl, bumping his face against the bars a couple of times. Barry added sheepishly, Hes blind. Cant see a thing.
How did he survive on the streets? I wondered, turning back to Barry.
He wasnt a street cat, he chuckled, snapping his nose in a mockapology. His owners handed him over when they got tired of looking after him. They didnt have the time, but Archie still craves attention. We gave him some care, though who really wants an old, blind cat? Even Natalie, our director, looked at him and said, No one will take him.
True enough, I agreed. They usually take the young and the calm.
If you dont count Daisy, Barry said, nodding toward the black dogs pen where a young woman sat beside the animal. Danteour stubborn onehas a habit of pushing people away, but shes trying to befriend him.
So its happening? I asked.
Bit by bit. Folks who are loyal rarely approach, and Dante is exactly that kind of catlike dog. Same with Archie, Barry sighed. When they first brought Archie in, he didnt eat for a week, just waited for someone to take him. When someone enters, he sniffs the air, wags his tail, then, realizing its not for him, curls back up and sighs.
You hid him in the corner to spare him extra stress? I probed. Barry nodded, his lips tightening.
Exactly. Its miserable watching him lift his hopes each time, only to slump back and nap until evening. Most likely his life will end here. Who wants an old, blind cat? What about youany animal caught your eye? Need a suggestion? Barry leaned in, eyes bright. I saw you at Milos cage.
Yes, that cheeky little thing, I smiled, recalling the bigheaded kitten.
Hes a recent arrival. Kids found him on the streets and brought him here. Probably a stray from a stray mum. Good thing the dogs didnt claim him first. Milos tiny, and many people prefer older animals. Dont think weve ignored himhes been vaccinated, fleatreated, even taught to use the litter. He wont make a mess, Barry grinned, meeting my gaze. So, taking Milo home?
I think yes, I said, glancing at the sleeping Archie and adding quietly, Could I take him too?
Seriously? Barry looked surprised, paused, then shook his head. We only allow one pet per adopter. Hang on while I check with Natalie.
Alright, I replied, watching Barry disappear down the hallway. I turned back to Archie, who seemed to understand my words. Hey there, mate. Come with me? Im not your owner, but I can promise you food, water, and a bigheaded catlover wholl tease your tail.
Before I could finish, Archie lifted his nose, inhaled the air, and padded to the cage door that Barry had inadvertently left ajar while speaking to the director. He sniffed my outstretched hand, nudged my fingers with his cheek, and let out a faint purr.
Looks like a yes, I said, scratching his ear gently.
Natalie says its fine, Barry called back, breathless, a grin on his face. Looks like youve made a connection.
And why not? I shrugged. Two old bachelors, a spacious flat, and a giant catlover to look after us both.
Is it a secret? Barry whispered. Why would you want Archie when he wont live long?
I sighed, looking into Archie’s clouded eyes. Because a creature should go on a rainbow where its loved, not in a chilly shelter where every door slam breaks a heart.
A soft whirr seemed to echo in Archies chest, as if confirming my thought.
Ill get the paperwork sorted, Barry promised and vanished into the back office, leaving me alone with the old cat. For the rest of the afternoon we sat in companionable silence. I stroked his ear, and he murmured a faint purr, his gaze fixed on me with those greytinted, unseeing eyes.
*****
That night, reclined on the couch, the television murmured in the background while Milostill a tiny furballnestled against my chest. Dust from his playful raids still clung to his coat. He sighed softly, occasionally extending tiny claws to tug at my shirt.
Beside my left foot, on a grey blanket, lay Archie. He curled into a tight ball, his paw draped over my thigh as if fearing I might disappear like his former owners. Whenever I shifted, Archie snapped his head up, inhaled sharply, and settled only when I gently scratched his head and whispered that I was there.
When I rose to make tea, Archie, bumping into the corners now and then, followed me, while Milo trailed like a tiny tail behind. After a while, Milo learned the route to the kitchen, navigating without crashing into anything, his bowls of water and food waiting patiently.
When I left for work, both cats escorted me to the door. Archie lingered, his eyes never moving from the doorway, his whiskers twitching as if measuring my departure. He would wait, then sniff the air, lick my outstretched hand, and retreat to his blanket nook. At night they slept beside me: Milo perched on the pillow, his fluffy rear gently resting on my head; Archie curled at my left foot, his slender leg tucked over my thigh. I know someday Archie will go, but I hope he departs to a place where he is loved, not to a cold shelter where each slam of a door shatters an old cats heart.
