Dad, please dont take her! whimpered the youngest daughter, seven-year-old Emily, her nose red from crying. You cant just give Daisy away, shes ours! Daisy, your cat, their father snapped as he jerked the steering wheel, makes a mess everywhere. All over the house: in the hallway, by the fireplace, and yesterday in my shoe! Refuses to use the litter tray, keeps going wherever she pleases. What am I meant to do with her? But Dad
Thats how it ended up. Michael Stevenson started up the battered old Ford Fiesta white, with peeling paint and rusty patches along the wings. On the back seat, in a cramped cardboard box, Daisy whined in a pitiful, high-pitched voice.
Dad, dont take her! Emily sobbed again, standing by the gate gripping the bars with both hands, watching through teary eyes as their knackered little Fiesta rattled around the corner and disappeared.
It was a damp, drizzly autumn in the village. Low, heavy skies hung over the rooftops and the breeze tugged at Emilys plaits, making her cotton dress flicker around her knees.
Emily, inside! Youll catch cold! called out their mum, Helen Stevenson, from the window. Why are you stood out there like a statue?
Emily didnt budge. Tears streamed down her cheeks, salty and hot.
Daisy their Daisy Ginger, with little white socks on her paws and a fuzzy white chest. Shed curl in Emilys lap and purr in the evenings or nestle by the stove. But now
The kitchen was warm, filling the house with the smell of stewed cabbage and yeast dough Mum was baking buns. The older children Peter (thirteen), Beth (eleven), and Jack (nine) sat pretending to do homework over their exercise books.
Well, pretending is about right. Peter scribbled glumly, not really looking at the page. Beth was half-hidden behind a textbook her blotchy eyes said more than words. Jack was strangely quiet, chewing on his pencil, not making a sound.
This always happens, Peter suddenly blurted, dropping his pen. Once Dads decided, thats it! He never asks anyone else.
Quiet, Peter! Helen snapped, kneading dough with quick hands. Your father does what he thinks is best. Weve already got three cats. Both Poppy and Thomas use the tray, as they should. But Daisy well, your Daisy didnt.
She just needs more time! Beth cried, sniffling. We could have trained her!
Trained her? Mum smiled wryly. And whos got the time? Me? Im snowed under as it is cows, pigs, the allotment, and all of you! Now a cat with fancy ways
We couldve done it! We couldve trained her! Beth protested.
Its too late, Helen cut her off.
Emily slipped in quietly and sat by the window, staring at the hazy drizzle. The village looked bleak grey houses, dark vegetable patches turning to mud.
Mum will she come home? Emily asked, barely above a whisper.
Helen sighed deeply. I dont know, love. I just dont know
Half an hour later, Michael came back. He shrugged off his damp jacket, hung it on a hook and walked into the kitchen without looking at the children.
Well? his wife asked quietly.
Took her, Michael muttered. To a house in the next village. Left her with the Smiths, they promised to look after her.
Is it far? asked Jack.
Three miles, maybe more, Michael grumbled.
She wont come back, Beth whispered.
She doesnt need to, he replied coldly. Thats enough talk. Pour me some tea, Im freezing.
Helen set a mug of tea in front of him, popped some pasta with gravy on a plate. He ate in silence, slurping his food with angry exhaustion. The children sat at the table too, but nobody touched their supper just stared at their plates as if they were loaded with stones.
Late that night, when the house had finally gone quiet and everyone was in bed, Emily twisted and turned, unable to sleep. She lay on her half of the wide bed she shared with Beth, listening to the rain lash the windows and the ancient timbers creak, and the muffled bark of a dog far across the fields.
Beth, are you awake? she whispered.
Yeah, Beth whispered back.
Daisys going to come home. I know she will. Shell find her way.
Dont be silly. Hows she going to manage that? Dad took her to another village thats miles and miles! For a little cat, its like another country.
But shes clever. Shell find us. Shell know.
Beth turned to face the wall, and Emily lay wide-eyed for a long time, whispering quietly, the way her Nana had taught her: Please, God, look after Daisy. Help her find her way home. Please
Meanwhile, Daisy had hidden herself away in the Smiths cottage, crouched under the wood stove. The older couple were kind gave her some milk, left her a bit of meat, gave her a gentle stroke. But the cat neither purred nor brushed up against anybody. She felt out of place, curled into a tight ginger ball.
Where was home? Where were Emily, Beth, Jack, and Peter? Where was Helen, who would sometimes slip her a bit of bacon from the table on the sly? Where were all the familiar smells wood smoke, hay, fresh milk?
Here, everything smelled wrong. The voices were all unfamiliar. There was a massive grey tomcat, and he hissed at Daisy when she tried going near his bowl.
She waited. Through the night. And when Mrs. Smith opened the back door next morning for the chickens, Daisy bolted like a shot.
Oy! Where dyou think youre off to? Mrs. Smith shouted.
But the cat was already gone, darting across the vegetable patch, over the fence, and on to the road. She kept running till the village was behind her and she was alone in a soggy autumn field.
Rain just kept on coming, pouring steadily since dawn cold and merciless. Her ginger fur clung to her body, paws slipping on the churned-up earth, claws digging into the mud.
She didnt know the exact way. Something inside her flickered a stubborn, ancient instinct. Keep going dont stop, it urged.
A day passed. Daisy sheltered in an old, half-collapsed haystack. She shook from cold, her stomach knotted in hunger. She had tried to catch a mouse, but it darted into its burrow, slipping away. All she found was a puddle of rainwater bitter, earthy to drink.
The next day she reached the road. Broken tarmac and potholes; an occasional car passing by, splashing her with filthy water. Daisy limped along the verge, fell, crawled back up, and hobbled on.
At night, she found an abandoned shed, rotten wood and the rank scent of mice. She managed to catch one, ate it greedily. That helped for a little while.
On the third day, it started to snow for the first time that autumn. Wet, heavy flakes clung to her ginger fur, leaving dark tracks behind her. Her paws were raw and stinging, pink skin showing through, but she wouldnt give up.
Because somewhere far ahead was home. Children would be waiting there. The warm spot by the fire. And Helen, who might scold you, but secretly gave you a little stroke when nobody was looking.
On the fourth day, a familiar copse of birches appeared. Daisys heart started to race. She quickened her step, almost broke into a run. Yes it was the place where the kids would pick mushrooms in the summer, where Emily wove daisy chains on long afternoons.
On the fifth day, Daisy staggered to the river narrow, but icy. She braved the water, climbed out shivering, and shook the snow off her sodden coat.
The sixth day brought a cough. Mucus dripped from her little nose; every breath was raspy and broken. But she limped on, stubbornly.
And at last the seventh day. Early morning. Daisy, caked with mud and crusted snow, reached the little garden gate and sat there, mewing a weak, wheezy sound. No one heard. She cried louder.
The door flew open and Emily burst out barefoot in her nightdress.
Daaaaisy! the little girl shrieked, dashing to the gate, flinging it wide, scooping Daisy up into her arms. Mum! Dad! Everybody! Shes made it home! Daisys come back!
One by one, the other kids came running Beth, Jack, Peter. Helen wiped her hands on her apron, came over to see for herself.
Oh, poor old thing, she murmured, kneeling. Shes absolutely done in and got a runny nose. Looks like a bit of a cold.
Mum, we need to help her! Beth pleaded.
Help her? Since when did anyone get doctors out for cats? The vets for cows and pigs, love, cats sort themselves out.
But Mum!
Oh, dont make a fuss, Helen conceded, flapping her hands. Warm her some milk and fetch a cloth to wipe her down. Well see how she goes.
Michael appeared on the threshold, staring at the ginger cat in Emilys arms.
So she did find her way, he muttered.
Dad, she walked the whole way three, maybe four miles! Can you even imagine? Peter blurted out.
Michael said nothing, just turned and walked back into the house.
They brought Daisy inside, bundled her up by the fire. Emily fetched a fresh bowl of steaming milk. Daisy drank it down greedily, dripping milk all down her chin. Beth dabbed at her gently with an old towel, careful not to hurt her.
Her paws are bleeding Beth whispered in a choked voice. Mum, just look
Helen came to sit down, inspecting her with gentle fingers.
Well, youve had a time of it, havent you, love? she sighed. Jack, run fetch the antiseptic. Beth, get some bandages. Well patch her up.
What about her snuffle? Emily asked.
Her snuffle well, well try some chamomile. Ill ask old Mrs. Dorsey for a recipe she knows about these things. The main things keeping her warm and fed. The rest fingers crossed.
From that moment, the children doted on Daisy like she was a baby. Emily hardly left her side, stroking her, whispering little encouragements. Beth made her bowls of chicken broth. Jack found an old blanket and made a nest by the fire. Peter sulked in a corner, hammering away at bits of wood.
What are you making? Beth asked.
A litter box, Peter grunted. So she finally learns to use it. Well teach her.
Do you think she will?
We have to teach her.
Daisy was poorly for nearly a week. Sneezing, snuffling, her eyes running. But the children didnt give up served her chamomile tea, warm milk, kept her cosy.
And slowly, Daisy perked up. The runny nose dried up, her eyes sparkled, her fur became fluffy and bright ginger again.
Then training started in earnest. Peter made a litter box from an old crate, filled it with sand. Every time Daisy started sniffing about, she was whisked to the tray.
This way, Daze, right here, Emily would say gently, over and over.
Daisy grumbled and tried to sneak away. But the kids were relentless. And one day miracle of miracles Daisy went to the tray by herself, pawed at the sand, and did everything just right.
Shes done it! Emily squealed. Mum! Dad! Shes used the tray herself!
Helen smiled for the first time in days.
Well, what do you know So it can be taught. Who wouldve thought?
Michael sat at the table with his newspaper. He looked up, watching the ginger cat washing her paw beside her new litter box.
Youre a stubborn thing, he said softly. Youve got some bloody spirit in you all those miles
Dad, you wont send her away again, will you? Emily piped up nervously.
He was quiet for a long moment, as if weighing his words, before he finally replied: No. If she came all the way back herself suppose this is where she belongs. With us.
Emily threw her arms around him, hugging him as if afraid this new promise might slip away.
Thank you, Dad! Thank you!
Oh, enough of that, he muttered, but you could see he wasnt cross at all.
Daisy lived in their house for years. She never made a mess again, always used her tray. She purred in the evenings by the fire, curled up tight, and caught mice as well as any farm cat. All the children beamed with pride.
Sometimes, Michael would watch her and shake his head.
Shes got something special, that one, hed say. Proper spirit. Knew where home was. No miles could stop her.
And the kids always agreed because it was true. Daisy knew where she belonged. She crossed rain, cold, hunger, and pain to get home. Because home was where someone waits for you.
And when someones waiting, thats where you live. Thats when life carries on.
