Throw him out on the street. Found the neighbours house cat under the snow, but his owner refused to save him
Charlotte has always treated the neighbours cat with suspicion. She never hated cats, but this massive, bold tabby had once thoroughly got on her nerves.
This is a story about the importance of never losing your humanityno matter the circumstances.
That summer, the neighbours cat, Bertie, began to use Charlottes vegetable plot as his personal loo. Many times, Charlotte caught him in her little garden, busy digging at the soil like he was conducting some archaeological dig. Shed chase him off with a shout, but Bertie would simply slip away, cool as you like. Charlottes cottage was small but sturdya little place shed inherited from her granny, conveniently nestled just outside Oxford, in the quiet countryside.
Just a street away and it felt like youd stepped into a real village. But if you walked down to the bus stop on the main road, the city was within easy reach. When her granny was alive, Charlotte loved coming here. Even after she passed, Charlotte visited often at weekendsbringing friends along, firing up the old wood-burning sauna, grilling sausages, and picking wild berries. The nearby woods were bursting with mushrooms in the right season, and the peace and fresh air were perfect for a break. Her cousin RebeccaUncle Peters daughter and her childhood matelived just a few houses down. There was always something to do: gardens to tend, the river to exploreboredom wasnt an option.
Charlotte planted a small patch of radishes and greens each year, with a few spring onions in another bed. It was modest, but it was hers. And Bertie, the neighbours tom, took a particular liking to it, ruthlessly developing it for his own needs. Charlotte went to complain to Berties ownerMrs. Margaret Walters. Margaret just rolled her eyes and scoffed, Well, what am I supposed to do? Am I meant to stand watch all day? Throw a stick at him if you cant catch him!
Margarets rough attitude had a simple explanation. Bertie belonged to her late husband, Reginald. Margaret always claimed, Ive no use for cats at all!, having always considered herself a dedicated dog person. But when Reginald passed a couple of years ago, Bertie stayed with her out of necessity.
Bertie was hardly helpless. He was an expert mouser, and rumour had it, hed nick fish from the canal as well. In better times, he accompanied his owner on every fishing trip. All Bertie wanted was a roof over his head and a warm fireplace to ride out the storms and frosts.
So Charlotte declared war on Bertie. She tried all sortsreasoning, coaxing, even tempting him with treats from town. Bertie ignored every city snack and watched her from afar, sceptical, never letting her within five yards.
Once, Charlotte doused him with cold water from the hose. Another time, she did the weeding armed with a whistle and, spotting Bertie trespassing, charged after him through the beetroot beds, blowing the whistle as if she were a football referee. Later, collapsed in laughter, she remembered how Bertie, after vaulting the fence, turned to shoot her a wounded glance as if to say, “Really? Thats out of order,” then vanished tail held high.
Margaret watched these antics from over the fence, chuckling to herselfespecially now, as her dream of becoming a proper dog owner had finally come true. Her daughter had brought a dainty little Yorkshire terrier, Daisy, for the summer, giving Margaret plenty to fuss over. Charlotte solved the gardening problem by dumping three bags of sawdust in a weedy corner of the plot.
Bertie appreciated the gesture and did all his digging there from then on. Charlotte breathed a silent sigh of relief. But soon, she couldnt shake the feeling she was being watchedpeering eyes from the shrubbery, from the roof, through cracks in the fence. Late one night, stepping into the moonlit garden, Charlotte nearly had a heart attack when two shining eyes glared at her from the dark. Her scream must have echoed through the whole village. With Bertie, Charlotte always kept her distancenever knowing quite where hed pop up next.
Charlotte stayed in her grans cottage through the summer, but soon university called her back and she began visiting only on weekends.
On one of those rare trips, Charlotte stepped outside one winter morning to find a snowy mound on the back steps. It was Bertie. The huge tomcat sat there, dusted in snow, icicles clinging to his whiskers. He didnt startle, didnt even lift his tailjust hunched, head drooping. When Charlotte brushed off the snow, he had no reaction, and when she stroked his head, he silently opened his mouth as if trying to meow, but couldnt muster even a puff of breath.
Charlotte scooped him up and carried him inside. She wrapped him up in a tartan blanket, warmed his numb face, and meted the ice on his whiskers with a warm towel. Bertie didnt fighthe was too weak. After making him as comfortable as she could, Charlotte marched straight over to Mrs. Walters.
But Margaret was blunt: He lives in the shed now. Drenched the carpets inside, blasted nuisance. Not having him back in my house, not a chance! Turns out, after Daisy arrived, Bertie had started bullying the little dog and marking his territory all over. Wanting peace, Margaret had banished him to the shed.
Hed managed over the summer, but now, in the uninsulated shed, winter was proving too much. Charlotte tried to reason with Margaretafter all, Bertie had once been the pride of the summer, always hunting, always lively. But all she got in return was, Ive chucked a handful of kibble in an old pothe can eat that and wash it down with snow! He wont starve. Throw him back out if you dont want him!
Returning home, Charlotte suddenly realised: Bertie hadnt shown up at her step by accident. He was looking for help. With nowhere else to go, hed come to the one person hed spent the summer antagonising.
Charlotte started ringing round everyone she knewmaybe someone needed a cat? But there was no interest. Rebecca suggested tucking him in the barn with the cow and pigswarmer than the shed, but she couldnt take him into the house; her own cats wouldnt tolerate it.
By then, Bertie had rallied a little, creeping out of the blanket, padding softly around the room, brushing against Charlottes leg before sitting and fixing her with a steady gazeas if he knew his fate was being decided. Charlotte sighed and rang her mother. Mum had always said no to pets in the flat, but remembering how kind-hearted Reginald had really been, how he always brought fish for everyone and Bertie was his faithful companionshe suddenly softened. She even shed a tear, thinking of the poor, ageing cat, now abandoned by all.
The decision was made.
Charlotte bought a sturdy plastic pet carrier at the corner shop, settled Bertie inside, and set off for Oxford. For Bertie, a new life was just beginning.
