Sophie and Whiskers: A Rescue from the Skies
“Mum, can I have a pasty—with cheese, please?”
“Of course, love. Just a moment.”
The baker at the station tucked the warm pasty into a paper bag. Outside, the frost bit at their cheeks as evening turned to night. Mum and her little boy trudged through the snowy park, where ice-laden branches creaked under their weight, and the air hung crisp and still.
“Mum…”
“What now?”
“It’s not nice! I want one with meat instead!”
“Oh, Jake! I asked you already! You’re spoiled rotten!” She sighed, shaking her head.
With a huff, the boy tugged his hand free and tossed the unwanted pasty. It arced through the air before landing beneath a towering pine, its branches glittering with frost. The wind whispered sadly through the trees, as if mourning its fate.
But this pasty had a story. A long, hard-earned, real one.
It began in summer, in the golden fields near Kent. A tiny seed grew under the sun, ripening into wheat. Then came the harvest—the combine, the flour mill, the sacks carried to the bakery on Elm Street. There, bakers with flour-dusted hands rolled the dough, layered it with butter, and stuffed it generously with cheese and herbs.
The pasty emerged from the oven golden, flaky, and fragrant—filled with care. But fate had other plans. A child’s whim cut its journey short, leaving it to freeze in the snow. So much effort, so much warmth—all for nothing?
Whiskers was a street cat. Not one for basements or flats—he belonged to the sky and the snow. Grey, moderately fluffy, with emerald eyes, he was a local legend—four years on the streets! A veteran. He lived near the third block, where the old ladies fed him daily.
A house cat? Never. He’d tried once. A family on the fourth floor took him in. But Whiskers knocked over vases, dashed after shadows, rattled about at night. He couldn’t bear being shut in. His soul was wild.
Then came the horror. A man strode into the courtyard with a monstrous dog—a shaggy beast with mad eyes. Deliberately, he unleashed it on Whiskers. A chase through snowdrifts, over cars, across icy pavements. Whiskers made it. He shot up a tree—higher, higher, until his heart hammered in terror.
But down? He couldn’t. The branch beneath him was thin, and fear paralyzed him. He yowled for the old ladies. The first day, they fretted below, waving catnip, calling the RSPCA: “Get him down, he’s stuck!”
“He’ll come down on his own,” they replied.
Day two. A blizzard. People vanished. Whiskers ate snow. Gnawed twigs from hunger. Night was endless. Ice clumped his fur, turning him into a frozen lump. Day three—he stopped crying. Just sat there, weak and silent. Cold seeped into his bones, his paws numb, his heart faltering. He was fading.
Then, on the fourth day, the inevitable: his grip failed. Like an autumn leaf, Whiskers tumbled down. Spinning, scattering snowflakes, he landed in a drift, shuddered—and couldn’t move. His mouth opened, but no sound came. The end?
Then—a scent. Sharp, sudden, like sunlight in the dark. Food.
He pried his eyes open. There, right before him in the snow—the pasty. Still warm inside, frostbitten at the edges, but rich, buttery, real. Bitten by childish teeth, yet still good.
Whiskers lunged. He tore into it, gulping, devouring, hardly believing his luck. He ate like never before. That bit of dough, butter, and cheese—journeyed from field to pavement—had saved him. A second chance. A gift from above.
The cat stood. Shook himself. The storm still howled, but warmth pulsed through him. He trotted to the block—the one with the old ladies.
“Whiskers! Oh my days, he’s alive!” Auntie Mabel gasped, bursting onto the step.
“Whiskers! We rang, we begged, we waited! The RSPCA didn’t come! But he fell on his own, silly boy!”
The women swarmed him like sunlight. Someone opened the door, someone brought a warm blanket. And Whiskers… this time, he didn’t fight. He curled up quietly in a corner, savouring his pasty.
And somewhere, in that warm bakery, another batch of pasties slid into the oven. Maybe one day, one would save another life.
The end? Only the beginning. Especially if you’re a cat. And especially if you’ve met a pasty.
