“Hey, mate, I haven’t seen your cat around the block for ages. How’s he doing anyway? Still alive and kicking?”
The neighbour perked up at the mention of the cat and broke into a grin.
“Oh, he vanished a few days ago. Thank God for that!”
“Why thank God?” Nick tried to keep his voice steady, even though inside he was fuming.
*****
Over the last couple of weeks, Nick had noticed his neighbours kept chucking their pet cat out into the hallway. Yeah, literally grabbing him by the scruff and booting him out.
Sometimes the bloke did it, sometimes the missus.
And sometimes…
…that poor cat would fly right past his nose.
“Watch where you’re going!” Nick snapped at the woman next door. But she wouldn’t even listen.
Instead of apologising, she shot him a dirty look and slammed the door.
And I mean slammed – the windows rattled and you could bet a few micro-cracks appeared in the building’s foundations. At first, Nick naively thought they were just letting the cat out for a wander or teaching him to go out on his own.
But after a while, he realised it was punishment for some misdeed.
Basically: mess up – out you go into the hallway.
Sometimes terrified, sometimes utterly miserable, the cat would sit for hours on the fourth-floor landing, right by the brown leatherette door, waiting to be forgiven and let back in.
And his owners did forgive him, of course. They’d take him back in, but not straightaway.
If he started meowing or scratching at the door, the woman would whack him with the broom. Nick saw it with his own eyes.
He’d been climbing the stairs – the lift had been out for six months – and when he reached the fourth floor, he spotted the familiar cat. He was about to say hello, but…
…the cat wasn’t paying him any attention.
He was yowling loudly and clawing at the door.
The cat clearly wanted to get home, but since they wouldn’t let him in, he decided to remind them the simple way.
Footsteps inside, then the door flew open, and the woman in a washed-out dressing gown, without a word, whacked the cat full force with the broom and slammed the door shut.
It happened so fast Nick didn’t get a word in. And he had plenty to say…
…he wanted to shame her for treating her pet like that.
“Tough break, buddy?” Nick asked, crouching down to the cat.
The cat looked at him with sad eyes, but there was gratitude there too – for someone finally noticing him.
The cat got kicked out for the smallest offences.
One day Nick heard the neighbour shouting through the flat: “Oh you little…! Knocked over the vase again! John, get the cat out now. That’ll teach him to jump on tables!” – and a minute later the door cracked open, a hairy male hand appeared, gripping the cat by the scruff.
Then the fingers let go, the cat landed on the landing, and the door closed. The cat got up and sat facing the door – waiting to be forgiven and let back in.
Nick just shook his head disapprovingly. He couldn’t stomach that kind of discipline.
He patted the cat and went home.
The cat stayed put, wearing an expression of cosmic sorrow on his whiskery face.
Nick wasn’t a particularly sentimental bloke, but this image stuck with him like a splinter.
“How can you treat a living creature like that?” he wondered. After a while, whenever Nick passed by, he’d slow down, and the cat would recognise him and start purring softly – a welcome, a bit pleading.
Sometimes Nick would squat down, scratch the cat behind the ear, and the cat would close his eyes, tilt his head into the fingers, then press his damp nose into Nick’s palm.
The cat was warm, alive, and so trusting – and it made Nick feel awful.
He just couldn’t understand why such a sweet cat had such heartless owners. Why get a pet if you don’t love anyone but yourself? “Strange people, honestly.”
Then one day, meeting the cat in the hallway again, Nick made up his mind: if these people threw the poor thing out one more time, he’d do something. Enough was enough.
He didn’t know what exactly, but he felt he had to step in, or it would never end.
The day Nick’s patience finally snapped came on a Friday, when he got home already furious.
He’d argued with colleagues at work, people on the bus pushed and stepped on his feet, and a miserable drizzle had been falling since morning. His mood was rock bottom. Maybe even below.
Climbing the stairs, he heard the familiar pitiful “meow” from the third floor.
The cat was sitting by his door as usual, but they wouldn’t let him in.
And it was pretty chilly in the hallway. Not exactly May weather, you know. Nick paused on the landing, staring thoughtfully at the cat, who, upon seeing him, started purring and came over.
And then – bam!
All his problems from today suddenly felt trivial. The cat – he had problems.
What kind? Huge ones. He was treated like a thing. Like a toy. What could be worse?
Nick listened to the silence behind the leatherette door. No one cared about this cat.
And he really wanted to teach his neighbours a lesson.
“Right, that’s it,” Nick said out loud, surprising himself with his own resolve. “Come with me.”
He bent down and scooped up the cat.
The cat immediately purred louder and rubbed his head against Nick’s damp jacket, leaving streaks of fur.
Then they walked up to the seventh floor, where Nick lived.
He only took the cat for a couple of days.
“Let the owners get scared, let them search, worry. They’ll realise you can’t do that…” Nick thought as he entered his flat. The cat settled in surprisingly quickly. Sniffed the corners, jumped onto the sofa, circled a few times, then curled up on the blanket, gazing gratefully at his rescuer.
While the cat rested, Nick – despite the miserable drizzle and his tiredness – dashed to the nearest pet shop, bought the best cat food, litter tray and accessories, plus some toys in case the fluffy lodger got bored while he was out.
The next day, Saturday, Nick went to the front door several times, opened it, and peered into the hallway.
He was amazed at how quiet it was.
No one was walking around the floors, no one was calling the cat’s name (come to think of it, Nick never knew his name), no one was sticking up notices.
It seemed no one was looking for the missing cat. Which was weird. Really weird…
Nick went back inside, looked at the cat, and shrugged.
The cat lazily stretched on the sofa and didn’t even think about asking to go out.
“Listen, maybe you want to go back to the hallway?” Nick asked on Sunday, pointing at the door. “I’m not keeping you. Go if you need to.”
The cat looked at the door, turned his gaze to Nick, and deliberately started licking his paw.
Then he got up, walked over, and rubbed against Nick’s leg.
The answer was clearer than words. Nick closed the door, grinned, and picked up the cat.
They went to the kitchen for breakfast, then to the living room to watch telly. After all, it was the weekend. The cat lay on his lap, purring like a tiny tractor, and for the first time in ages, the flat felt genuinely cosy.
Then Monday came. No one had looked for the cat.
And Nick decided he wouldn’t give him back to the owners.
The only thing bothering him was that the neighbours might accuse him of theft.
Technically, he had stolen someone else’s property. Living property, with good intentions and purely for educational purposes, but stolen nonetheless.
Nick ran through possible scenarios in his head: the neighbours would call the police, he’d be charged with theft, he’d have to explain and justify himself. His motives might not be understood.
That thought gnawed at him and wouldn’t let him relax. All day at work, he was on edge, constantly checking his phone for missed calls. But none came.
When Nick came home that evening, he saw the neighbour heading out to take the rubbish.
The black bin bag didn’t show anything clearly, but the shape inside looked a lot like a cat litter tray.
Nick waved to the neighbour to stop, walked over, and asked casually:
“Hey, mate, I haven’t seen your cat around the block for ages. How’s he doing? Still alive and kicking?”
“Oh, he’s gone missing a few days ago. Thank God!”
“Why thank God?” Nick tried to sound calm.
“Well, the wife wanted to take him to the country house and leave him there. She said she’d had enough – fur everywhere, yowling all night, knocking over vases. She reckoned he could catch mice there, at least be useful. And I really didn’t fancy driving out there. First off, it’s far. And second, she’d definitely make me do some work. So the cat buggered off on his own, and now I don’t have to go. I even drank two litres of beer yesterday to celebrate. A proper party.”
“Don’t you feel sorry for the cat, though? What if something’s happened to him?”
“What’s there to feel sorry for? He’s not a person. Hey, why are you asking about him anyway?” The neighbour squinted suspiciously.
“Oh, just wondering…” Nick replied absently, then without saying goodbye, he hurried towards the entrance.
Inside, Nick was boiling with indignation.
“Country house, eh… At the end of October. Drive him out there and leave him to die. Not a shred of regret. They’re even glad he ‘ran off’ and saved them the trip and the trouble.”
He pictured the sweet, trusting cat sitting on the porch of an empty country cottage – or worse, under the fence – waiting faithfully for them to come back.
Waiting as loyally as he had by the door in the hallway. To his neighbours, the cat was a thing – sometimes fun, sometimes annoying, and if it annoyed too often, it got tossed out. First into the hallway for a few hours, then to the country for good.
When Nick climbed to the seventh floor and stepped into his flat, he saw the cat waiting faithfully by the door, and his heart warmed.
And he suddenly realised he’d done the right thing…
Right to steal the cat from those heartless people who were planning to drive him to the country in late autumn and abandon him.
Nick smiled, picked up the cat, and they went to the kitchen to make dinner.
After dinner, they lay on the sofa, watching telly.
Well, Nick watched; the cat just stayed close. He’d roll onto one side, then the other. Then he shifted again, this time rolling onto his back and trustingly presenting his belly – his most vulnerable spot. He did it without thinking. Because he wasn’t scared anymore.
Because a real home isn’t just a roof over your head or a bowl of cat food.
A real home is a place where you don’t have to earn your right to be there.
And where you’re loved. Just because you exist.
