Returned After a Year
9th February
Today marks a year since it all happened. Funny how some things never really leave you.
I remember that afternoon clearlytaking out the rubbish onto the landing, and there he was, sitting right by the front door. My Alfie. Big ginger tomcat, proudly wearing his white waistcoat, looking at me with that lazy, almost mocking stare hes always had. As if it wasnt just a few hours earlier that hed torn through the kitchen and sent the saucepan lid flying. I nodded at himhe didnt even twitch an ear.
But on my way back in, the doormat was empty.
I wasnt worried just yet. Alfie did tend to wandersometimes hed do a circuit of the flats, or curl up on someone elses mat. I called for him. Walked around the landings. Checked the stairs. Went outside. Nothing.
Alfie never roamed far. He had a proper routine: front door, bench by the entrance, the bush by the fence with all the catnip, then home again. He didnt care for cars, pigeons, or other cats. He was more of a bystander. And then, suddenly, he was gone.
By evening, Id searched the whole block. Called for him, whistled, rattled his treat tinfelt foolish, to be honest. Only the elderly neighbours glanced over in sympathy:
Still not back, love?
Its been a whole day now, hasnt it?
You know how cats are off doing their own thing
But no, Alfie wasnt just any old cat. He was family. Never wandered off in the entire seven years wed had him.
By the third day, I started putting up flyers. Each one had a photo: Alfie on the window sill, Alfie curled up asleep, Alfie glaring into the lens with that telltale grumpy look. A few people called in. Someone was certain theyd seen a similar cat at the market in another part of town. I went. Spent an hour. Turned out it was a ginger dog. Not Alfie.
A week on, word got round that a few local teenagers had been loitering in the building. One of them asked around: Whose cat is that on the fifth floor? Friendly fella, must be expensive
You think they nicked him?
Looks that way, I admitted, and for the first time, I couldnt stop myself from crying.
The weeks slid by. Then months. I kept myself busywork, errands, listening to footsteps outside the flat, doors slamming. My heart would lurch each timemaybe its him. It never was.
Eventually, I put Alfies bowl away. But I kept his bed. Washed, dried, and laid it back out. Just in case. What if
One day, my mate appeared with a kitten. Grey, cheeky, constantly mewing.
You cant go on like thismoping around like youre in mourning, she said.
I kept the little chap. Called him Muffin. Energetic, loving, always up to some mischief. But he wasnt Alfie. Every stroke on that kittens fur left me feeling just a tinge hollow. Not because he wasnt the same, but because my heart was still fixed on the old one.
Nearly a year passed. Coldest winter I can remembersnow piling up, walkways like ice rinks. I was coming home after work, lugging shopping, muttering about forgetting the tea again, grumbling about the slippery stairs. Thats when I heard ita faint scratching, soft as a whisper.
I froze. Stepped closer to the door. Opened it.
There he was.
Alfie, perched on the mat. Skinny, filthy, ears frostbitten, paws trembling. And in his eyes that same old look, almost scolding: Whereve you been all this time?
I couldnt believe it. Squatted down. Reached out.
Alfie?..
He didnt meow. Just stood up, walked over, and pressed his head into my hand.
I broke into tears. Right there in the hall, shopping bag and loaf under my arm, coat zipped up to my chin. The tears just came, and Alfie rubbed and rubbed against me, as if he didnt quite believe it himself.
I brought him in. Warmed him up in the bath. Put out his food. He ate like hed been starving for months. Then he crawled onto my old armchair and fell straight asleepcurled up tight.
We went to the vet later. Tail was frostbittenthey had to take the end off. Couple of teeth broken. He was fragile, scarred, battered. But alive. The vet said, Someone clearly kept him. Hes far too friendly and yet far too rough for constant wandering. Probably stolen, maybe let go when they got boredor he legged it home. Somehow, he remembered the way.
Came home by himself
Its rare, but it happens. Their sense of smell, their memoryweve no idea how clever they are.
Since then, Alfie only sleeps in my bed. He ignores his old blanket now. Hes got no interest in going outside. At first, he chased Muffin away, but soon came round, and now they eat from the same bowl, clean each other like brothers.
Sometimes, I wonderwhat if I hadnt opened the door just then? Or if Id come home a bit later?
But he waited for me. Nearly a year, frail and thinyet he came back.
Now, even if I step out to the landing for a minute, I double-checkthe doors shut tight. Always.
If this has ever happened to youdrop me a note. Your stories matter.
Today, I realised something priceless: home isnt just a place. Its the ones who wait for you, no matter how long youre gone.
