A Cat Accidentally Discovers a Lost Mobile Phone: Drawn by Its Familiar Scent and Surprising Warmth, He Curls Up Atop It—Sparking a Series of Mysterious Calls That Lead Rita to an Unexpected Furry Reunion and a Touching Tale of Feline Affection Fueled by Catnip Scent

Author Emily TaylorReading 5 minViews 2

A cat quite accidentally stumbled across a phone one day

The object positively reeked of human and was delightfully warm to the touch. Settling down, said cat gave it a good cuddle with his front paws, sprawled out on topand the smartphone, as if to spite science and expectations everywhere, suddenly lit up at the faintest feline brush.

Rachel never really got a chance to enjoy her shiny new smartphone. From the very moment she switched it on, the thing turned out to be a complete dud: the temperature skyrocketed at the merest nudge. Then, clever soul that she was, she managed to lose it almost immediately.

What a shame It had been a brilliant phone; massive, crystal-clear screen, a battery that would power a small villageironically, the very thing that finally betrayed her. Now she couldnt take it backcouldnt very well return what no longer existed.

Rachel promptly called herself a wally, fished out her battered old Nokia from the Stone Age, and dialled her own number. Ring, ring but no one bothered to answer.

After dosing herself with valerian drops (for self-care), Rachel flopped on the bed and desperately tried to retrace her steps. Maybe, just maybe, if she retraced her walk, she might spot the wayward device. Suddenly, something vibrated beneath her handthe old mobile was ringing. Her own digits flashed on the display. Knowing her luck? Hardly surprising.

Hello? Whos there?

Only static, and a few short breaths then out of nowhere:

“Meow

Rachel nearly threw the phone out the window. Someones having a laugh, she muttered, fuming. Worse, she hadnt even bothered to lock the new phonemeaning some joker was busy playing about with it. Her growing irritation was promptly interrupted by another call.

More breathing, more static and, unmistakably, more meows whenever she spoke.

Stop ringing me! she barked, exasperated.

But the calls didnt stop. Resigning herself to the farce, Rachel bundled up and went outside. From the sounds of it, the prankster was close bylikely haunting the very spot where the phone was found. Time to retrace her route and confront the would-be comedian.

Dialling her number every few steps, Rachel pressed on, and after losing all hope, finally heard her ringtone chirping nearby. Gripping her phone (battle mode activated), she homed in on the sound, rehearsing a scolding for whoever thought winding her up was good sport.

Meanwhile, the ginger tomcat, now comfortably pressed against his warm prize, marvelled as it buzzed and chattered every time he prodded it with a paw. Curious, he gave it a sniff, and still it gibbered on. So, he replied, with great dignity.

The phone fell eerily silent. Pawing it once more, the strange black rectangle resumed its babblingand grew even warmer. Bliss! It was flipping freezing, but this peculiar item? A perfect cat-shaped radiator. He tapped it again with renewed hope.

Just then, the phone burst into song, loud and brash. Taken aback, the cat smacked it hard, only for its crooning to escalate. Distracted by this tuneful battle, he didnt even notice hed acquired a spectator under the big oak tree.

Whatever courage Rachel had conjured up instantly evaporated when she discovered her villain. A scruffy, ginger catlooking like the world owed him an apologywas mercilessly pummelling her smartphone, desperate to silence it. But as soon as he clocked Rachel

He dashed straight to her, all purrs and fluttering tail, as if running to greet a lost relative. His motor was in overdrive; he kneaded and headbutted her hands with such affection she could hardly resist. Rachel stood, rooted and gobsmacked, as this ginger bundle of contradictions poured his heart out at her feet.

He rubbed his cold nose against her cheeksone could nearly call it kissing. She realised then just how chilly he wasno wonder hed latched onto her pocket-sized central heating unit.

Stuffing the phone safely away and scooping the cat into her arms, Rachel headed home, ponderingwas this love at first meow? She must have made quite an impression, for after such a gush of tender fussing, she simply couldnt bring herself to leave him shivering under the tree.

The cat, meanwhile, having won the jackpot, squirmed ecstatically in her hands, bumping her chin and lips in sheer rapturemuch to Rachels feigned annoyance (not that she minded one bit, in truth). For a supposed wild tom, he was a world-class softie.

Of course, the explanation turned out to be as obvious as a wet Wednesday.

The cat was delightfully tipsy from the valerian Rachel had spilled earlier while attempting to calm her nerves.

The Further Away, the Dearer the Heart… “You know what, my dearest grandson! If I’m such a burden, there’s only one choice left. I won’t go live with my daughters anymore, nor will I traipse about from friend to friend. And I certainly don’t need you matchmaking me for some old gentleman—imagine, marrying me off in my golden years! —Gran, it’s what I’ve been telling you for ages! Mum says the same—just move into the retirement home. All you have to do is sign the house over to me, and you’ll get a cozy room, Mum will sort it out. There’ll be people to chat with, neighbours close by, and you won’t be in my way anymore. —I’m not leaving my house for anyone, Sasha. If I’m in your way, there’s the door and seven roads—take your pick. You’re young, clever, find a flat and live as you please. If you won’t study, go get a job. Parade a different girl home every day if you want. I’m a woman of nearly 65; I need peace and quiet. I’ve wandered enough these past couple of years. Time to come home. It just isn’t right, my boy—when you drive me out of my own house and live off my pension with your girlfriends. My pension isn’t endless. So you’ve one week. If you can’t find a place, go to your friends or that girlfriend—her name I keep forgetting—but I want you out of my home by tonight. First you try to foist a husband on me, then pack me off to a care home—ridiculous!” Her indignant grandson tried to argue, but Lydia Pavlovna was done listening. She walked silently to her room and closed the door, her head pounding. She ought to take a pill, but it would mean braving the kitchen and a run-in with her grandson, which she’d rather avoid. Glancing around her small room, Lida spotted a bottle of sparkling water—just enough for a sip. *** Lida never thought she’d stand up for herself with such resolve. Years of biting her tongue had caught up with her. For two long years, she’d endured in silence, running to one daughter or the other whenever summoned—and just as quickly heading home at their first hint of overstaying her welcome. Now, her twenty-year-old grandson was master of her own home—different ‘true loves’ trailing behind him every week as if Gran’s mere presence and sniffles behind the wall were ruining his romantic atmosphere. —Gran, why not go stay with someone, let us have the house to ourselves—Dasha, Masha, Sveta, Ira (circle as appropriate, they change often) would appreciate it! So Lydia Pavlovna stayed with her cousin, her old workmate, her friend’s wife – initially welcomed, but eventually she realised her visits were a strain. *** When there was nowhere left to go, her eldest daughter had a baby. City life, a mortgage, a school-age child—the family needed Gran more than ever. At first, everyone was happy: dinners hot, house tidy, children cared for. But after a few months, her son-in-law—barely a decade younger than Lydia—grew snippy. “Lydia, don’t buy those sausages—they’re poison! If you’re at home all day, can’t you make proper meals—homemade burgers, a proper roast…?” “Lydia, why are you spending so much on groceries and toiletries? You need to economise!” “Lydia! Do I look like a cow, gnawing on vegetables? We need more meat, but do keep an eye on the budget.” “You’re home anyway—can’t you help the eldest with her studies? Why are we paying for tutors with a perfectly good grandmother in residence?” Even her eldest granddaughter, just a bold nine-year-old, found fault—Gran’s clothes were embarrassing, she made her study, ‘Gran, why are you even here? Off to your country house, go play boss there!’ Lida endured it all. Her meagre pension bought meat for her son-in-law, pocket money for the embarrassed granddaughter, and even topped up the grandson’s bills—just to keep the house running. Complaining was pointless; her daughter worshipped her husband, never a word against him. When the youngest granddaughter started nursery, Lydia’s job was done. Her son-in-law said it plainly: “Thank you, Lydia, but we don’t need you now, time to go home.” Lydia’s heart sang with relief—finally she’d have her own space again. But her grandson had moved back in, with a girlfriend in tow. The place was a dump; bills unpaid, even the electric at risk. With no other option, Lydia took out a personal loan, settled the debts, scrubbed the house clean. Still, her grandson complained—no privacy with Gran coughing behind thin walls. And then, providence: her youngest daughter needed help with a newborn. Off she went again—only to realise after three months that she was, once again, surplus to requirements. Lydia fled before she could be asked to leave, returning to yet another frown from her grandson. Lydia might have carried on like this forever had it not been for one incident after returning home… House clean (she always paid her own way), debts gone, but again: “Gran, I’m going to Karen’s today—it’s her birthday, I’ll be back late. Lock up after yourselves, I’ll use the back door so I don’t disturb you.” “Why not stay the night then? Give us a break!” “Where would you two get tired of me in seven days?” “You won’t stay?” “No, I’ll come home.” The party was joyful—first the café, then just the close friends at Karen’s place, reminiscing about youth, steering clear of complaints. Lida was just about to head home when Karen’s phone rang—it was Lida’s daughter, Nastya. “Is everything all right? Why didn’t she call me?” Karen answered quietly: “She just asked to keep you here for the night. Sasha rang his mum—wants you to give them space. She called me—said if you won’t go to a care home, perhaps we can find you an old gent with a flat, so Sasha can get married without Gran breathing down his neck.” Lida poured out everything—to Karen and later, to her grandson and daughter: all the years of juggling, of being unwelcome in her own home. Sasha left, vowing never to return or help. At last, Lida was alone—and relished it: after a lifetime of accommodating everyone else, she could finally breathe. Her daughters called, hoping for babysitting—she said, “Bring the children to me. The air is better here, and in my own home I’m the boss. No more running around for everyone else.” Lida says: the further away, the dearer they become. And I think she’s right.