The heart of the cat thumped dully in his chest, thoughts scattered, his soul ached. What on earth could have happened for his owner to hand him over to strangers, why had she abandoned him?
When Alice was given an absolutely jet-black British shorthair as a housewarming gift, she spent several minutes firmly wedged in shock.
Her modest one-bedroom flat in Manchester, for which shed barely scrimped every pound, was still very much a work in progress. There were, predictably, quite a few other problems requiring her attention.
And then, suddenlya kitten. Recovering her composure, she peered into the kitten’s big amber eyes, sighed, smiled, and asked her friend whod brought the surprise guest:
Is it a boy or a girl?
Its a boy!
Well then, lad, youll be called Mr Whiskers, she declared to the little cat.
He opened his tiny mouth and emitted a humble, creaky ‘Meow.’
*****
It turned out British shorthairs were quite agreeable creatures. And so, for three years, Alice and Mr Whiskers lived in perfect harmony. Even better, throughout their shared days, Alice discovered that Mr Whiskers possessed a very touching soul and a heart as big as the North Sea.
He greeted her joyously after work, warmed her toes while she slept, watched telly with her smashed up against her side, and followed her around like her furry shadow during dusting.
Life with a cat became brightly coloured, every shade from happiness to melancholy. How comforting, she mused, to have someone waiting at home with whom she could share giggles and gloomand, crucially, someone who understood her half a sentence in.
Everything should have been peachy, but…
Recently, Alice noticed a persistent pain in her right side. At first, she blamed an awkward twist whilst rearranging her furniture. Then it was, obviously, the fish and chips. But when the pain ramped up, Alice sensibly booked herself an appointment with the doctor.
When the diagnosis landed, and the doctor mapped out the dismal, medical future awaiting her, Alice wept into her pillow all evening. Mr Whiskers, keenly sensing her state, quietly curled up by her side and tried to soothe her with melodic purrs that sounded suspiciously like an old radiator.
To the rhythm of Mr Whiskers’ purrs, Alice drifted into sleep. Next morning, having somewhat accepted her fate, she resolved not to tell her family about her illnessshe simply couldnt abide the sympathetic glances and awkward offers to help.
Besides, she clung to a splinter of hope that the doctors might manage to fix her. She was offered a course of treatment that could improve her condition.
Now, the question arosewhere to place Mr Whiskers? Deep down, coming to terms with the possibility that things might end tragically, she decided to find her dear cat a new home with kind new owners.
She posted an ad online, stating she was giving away a pedigree British shorthair to good hands.
When the first caller asked why she was rehoming an adult cat, Alice, for reasons unknown even to herself, replied that she was pregnant and, lo and behold, had suddenly developed an allergy to cat fur.
Three days later, Mr Whiskers, packed up in his carrier along with all his creature comforts, headed off to life with new owners; Alice checked herself into hospital.
Two days passed and she phoned the new owners to ask after Mr Whiskers. They, mortified, repeatedly apologised and confessed that the cat had legged it that very evening, and no one had seen him since.
Her first instinct was to abscond from the hospital in a dramatic fashion and start the search. She even asked the duty nurse to let her leave, but was ruthlessly sent back to her bed by a stern matron with no time for tearful cat stories.
Noticing Alices frantic pacing, her elderly roommate gently inquired what was wrong. Sobbing bitterly, Alice told her the whole tale.
Hold off before you despair, love, the frail older woman advised, Tomorrow, a top specialist from London is popping in. I havent got long, they say, but my sonhes big in business, you knowwanted to transfer me to another clinic. I declined. Still, he managed to get this top-notch doc to visit. Ill ask her to check you as well; maybe things arent as bleak as they seem, she added, patting Alices shoulder with a warm hand.
****
Mr Whiskers, having wriggled out of his carrier, pieced together that he was in quite unfamiliar territory. Some stranger even tried to stroke himimagine!
With nerves frayed beyond catnip repair, Mr Whiskers delivered a hearty swipe to the hand and bolted to the nearest dark nook.
Paul, best leave him be for now, let him settle, came a soft female voice, but it wasnt the voice hed spent three years listening for.
His heart thudded painfully, his thoughts scrambled, his catty soul ached. What could have made his human give him up to strangers, why had she abandoned him?
His amber eyes scoured the room in a panic. Then, he spotted itan open window. Like a furry ninja, he dashed across the room and leapt into freedom.
Fortunately, this was only the second floor, and beneath the window lay a neatly kept lawn. From there, Mr Whiskers began the long journey home.
*****
The specialist was, somewhat unexpectedly, a pleasant-looking woman in her forties. She introduced herself as Dr Mary Palmer, carefully studied Alices chart, then asked her to lie on her left side on the not-as-comfortable-as-advertised hospital couch.
She prodded, tapped, questioned, asked where it hurt and what kind of pain. Then she read the chart again. More mysterious medical machinery followed.
Alice braced herself for the worst. She returned to her room where her roommate already lay in bed.
So, whats the verdict, dear? she asked.
Nothing yet. They said theyd come back to the room.
I see. Well, as for meno luck. She confirmed the diagnosis, the older woman admitted sadly.
Im ever so sorry, and thank you for everything, said Alice, honestly not knowing how to console someone facing the end with such fragile dignity.
About half an hour later, Dr Palmer entered, flanked by other doctors.
Well, Alice, I have excellent news for you. Your illness is quite treatable; Ive already set up a course for you. Stay here two weeks, do the treatment, and youll be right as rain! she announced with a smile.
When the doctors left, her roommate spoke up: Thats grand. Im glad my last act could be helping someone else out. Go and be happy, dear.
*****
Mr Whiskers didnt have a guiding starhe hadnt a clue what that meant, being a catbut he followed his feline instinct, doggedly heading towards home. His journey through the urban wilderness was a mix of danger and slapstick misadventure.
Never having roamed the streets, this blue-blooded British gent transformed into a fearsome predator in one afternoon, all instincts sharpened to a point.
Sidestepping busy roads and noisy high streets, he made ground by creeping, darting, occasionally flying across pavements (or so it felt, when he was fleeing aggressive dogs), and sometimes shooting up trees to avoid disaster, all single-mindedly determined to get home.
In one of Manchesters smaller, quieter courtyardsafter being deafened by traffic noisehe came whisker-to-whisker with a burly old tomcat.
The local mog didnt waste time on introductions; spotting a newcomer, he launched himself at Mr Whiskers with a yowl. But our not-so-mild-mannered aristocat, transformed now into a scrappy street brawler, gave as good as he got.
The scrap was brief, with the neighbourhood boss fleeing to the nearest bushes, leaving Mr Whiskers with a slightly torn ear as a badge of honour.
Really, what else could you expect? The big local bruiser just fancied showing off for his mates, proving whos boss. But Mr Whiskers had one missionget homeand nothing would stop him.
The journey continued. Channeling the spirits of his wild ancestors, he learned to nap in tree forks that felt just right and comfortable.
Oh, the shamehe also mastered the fine art of scavenging bin leftovers and pilfering snacks from other garden cats, quietly fed by soft-hearted residents.
Once, he ran smack into a gang of mongrel dogs. They chased him onto a rickety tree and barked like mad, jumping up and poking the trunk with their muddy paws.
Some local folk, drawn out by the commotion, finally ran the dogs off. One kindly woman tried to lure Mr Whiskers back in with an irresistible slice of Waitrose ham.
Hunger and panic clouded his senses; he let her carry him off, even endured some gentle stroking. Still…
After restoring his energy in warmth and comfort, Mr Whiskers suddenly remembered his purpose, bolted after the woman into the entryway and, spotting an open doorlike a shadowhe slipped out, back on the long road home.
*****
Discharged from hospital, Alice headed home. The words of the older woman whod wished her happiness rang loud in her head. Of course, she was over the moon that the diagnosis hadnt held and she was healthy.
But her heart ached for Mr Whiskers. How would she ever bear coming home to a flat without being greeted by her fine furry friend?
No sooner had she crossed her threshold than Alice rang the people whod tried and failed to keep Mr Whiskers, and asked for their exact address. After visiting, retracing the route of the runaway cat, she resolved to follow his trail homewards.
Everyone told her not to hope, that two weeks had passed, and surely a pampered house cat wouldnt survive out on the wild streets; Alice refused to believe it.
She walked mile after mile, peering into every yard, examining nearby parks and car parks. She even tried to think as a cat, imagining the unpredictable choices of a beast long used to central heating. She called his name, peered into shadowy basement windows for any sign.
Nearing her own building, resignation crept in. Surely her cat was gone forever. It seemed unlikely any pampered flat-dweller would manage this trek through the city, which had taken her two hours on foot even with all the detours.
Entering her courtyard, grief welling behind her eyes, she blinked away tears. Through blurry vision, she spottedon the pavement oppositean unmistakable black cat heading towards her.
Just some old black cat, flashed through her mind. Alice froze and stared. Then she realised. She erupted from the spot, shrieking, Mr Whiskers!
And the cat didnt run to herhe simply had no strength left. He sat upright, eyes squinting in bliss, and croaked softly as if to say, I made it!Alice knelt down on the pavement, arms open, her tears tumbling freely nowonly joy, nothing else. Mr Whiskers dragged himself the last few steps, collapsing into her embrace, burying his nose desperately in the familiar scent of home. She scooped him up, whispering promises and apologies, nuzzling his scruffy fur with trembling laughter.
They staggered inside together, two souls battered but whole. From that dayno matter what life threw at themAlice swore she would never let go of her plucky companion again. When dusk painted golden stripes across the walls, Mr Whiskers reclaimed his usual spot curled around her feet, and each time Alice glanced down, she saw his torn eara soft reminder of courage, loyalty, and love that never ran out.
Later that evening, Mr Whiskers looked up at her with amber eyes full of secrets only they shared, and let out a gentle, rumbling purr. The flat felt brighter, the world less lonely, and in that simple, shared moment, it was clear: sometimes, home isnt a placeits family finding one another at last.
