Returned After a Year
The day started like any other: I popped out onto the landing to drop the rubbish in the bin, and there he wasmy Oscar. Ginger, regal, resplendent with his snowy white waistcoat across his chest, and donning that signature lazy, half-mocking expression of his. As if he werent the same cat who only hours before had darted into the kitchen and sent the saucepan lid spinning across the floor. I gave him a nod. Not so much as a flicker of an ear in response.
On the way back, the doormat was deserted.
No need to panic, I told myself. Perhaps hed wandered down a floor and planted himself outside someone elses front door, like hed been known to before. I called his name. Searched the landings. Checked every stairwell. Slipped into the communal garden, feeling faintly ridiculous as I shook a packet of Dreamies. Nothing.
Oscar was never one to venture far. He had a strict circuit: communal hallway, the bench by the entrance, a convenient patch of catnip in the neighbours flowerbedthen straight home. He didnt care for cars, pigeons, or other cats. Oscar was a connoisseur of observation. And now, hed vanished.
By evening, I had scoured every inch of the garden. I called, whistled, rattled treatslooking, no doubt, completely unhinged to the neighbours. Not a trace. The only response was a few sympathetic glances from the older ladies upstairs:
No luck finding him yet?
Not back all day?
Well, you know, cats they go their own way
But it wasnt like that. He wasnt just any cat. He was my cat. Hed never disappeared in seven years.
By the third day, I was putting up flyers everywhere. Every one with a different snap of Oscar: Oscar on the windowsill, Oscar curled up in a ball, Oscar glaring at the camera in his inimitable fashion. People rang up, wanting to help. One chap was adamant hed seen a cat just like Oscar over at the market in Walthamstow. Off I dashed, spent an hour traipsing around, only to find a ginger dog. Friendly, but not Oscar.
A week later, someone mentioned that a bunch of teenagers had started hanging around our building. One lad was even going door-to-door, asking who owned the cat curled up by the fifth-floor flat. He apparently said: Very tame, very calmsurely expensive, that one
You think they took him?
Looks that way, I said. And for the first time, I couldnt stop the tears.
Weeks passed, then months. I tried to stay busywork, errands, pretending not to listen to every click of heels and every slam of a neighbours door in case it was him. Each time, my heart would leap, only to sink as it wasnt.
Eventually I put Oscars bowl away. But his blanket stayed. I kept it laundered and ready, just in case Just in case.
One day, my friend barged in with a squawking, wriggling kitten. All grey and full of beans.
You cant go on like this, moping about like a Victorian widow, she insisted.
I kept him. Called him Muffin. He was mischievous, affectionate, hilarious. But not Oscar. Petting him just reminded me of the hollow space in my chestnothing to do with Muffin, but everything to do with what my heart still remembered.
Nearly a year passed. Winter came. The streets were knee-deep in slush, the pavements perilous with ice. I trudged home from work, heavy shopping bag in one hand, silently cursing the slippery stepsand remembering, again, that Id forgotten to buy tea. Then, a faint, scratchy sound. Barely audible, like a whisper from the past.
I froze. Crept to the door. Opened it.
Oscar.
There he was, on the mat outsideemaciated, filthy, ears frostbitten, paws trembling. His eyes had the same old look: a touch of accusation, as if to say, Well? Where on earth have you been all this time?
I couldnt believe it. I knelt down, reached out.
Oscar?..
He didnt meow. Just slowly stood, ambled over, and pressed his head into my palm.
And there I cried. Right there on the landing, clutching a loaf of bread and my shopping, swaddled up in my winter coat. The tears just streamed. And he nudged and rubbed up against me, almost as if he couldnt quite trust he was home.
Inside we went. Warm bath. Dinner. He gobbled his food as if he was auditioning for a commercial, then curled up in his old armchair and fell asleep, instantly.
In the days that followed, we went to the vet. Tailfrostbitten, tip needed amputating. Teetha couple missing. General conditionunbelievably gaunt. Scars and bruises all over. But alive. Very much alive!
Someones definitely had him, the vet reckoned. Hes too soft with people, but in a bit of a state. Most likely stolen, kept, then either chucked out or he escaped. The main thing is, he found his way back.
All by himself
Happens now and then, the vet nodded. Theyve got scent, memory, wits. Weve no idea how clever they actually are.
Hes slept in my bed ever since. Ignores his old blanket completely. No interest in venturing outdoors. At first, he wasnt thrilled with Muffin, but he got used to him eventually. Now, they eat from the same bowl and wash each others ears, like true brothers.
Sometimes I wonderwhat if I hadnt opened the door at that moment? What if Id been later?
But he waited for me. All that time. Skinny, battered, but alive.
Now, whenever I nip out to the landingeven for a tickI double and triple-check that the door is properly shut.
Always.
If youve ever had something like this happen, share your stories below. Yours matter too.
