Came Back After a Year
When I stepped out onto the landing to throw out the rubbish, he was still sitting right by the door. My Archie. Ginger, regal, with a white waistcoat on his chest and that same lazy, almost mocking look in his eye. As if he hadnt just raced into the kitchen a few hours earlier and knocked the lid off the saucepan. I nodded to himhe didnt even flick his ear.
But on my way back, the doormat was empty.
I didnt panic at first. Maybe hed wandered down a floor, curled up outside someone elses door, like hed done before. I called out. Walked around the landings. Checked the stairwells. Even nipped outside. Nothing.
Archie never strayed far. He had a strict routine: the flat, the bench by the entrance, the bush with catnipthen home. He had no interest in cars, pigeons, or other cats. He was an observer. And now, suddenly, he was gone.
By evening, Id scoured the whole courtyard. Calling, whistling, shaking the box of biscuits, feeling more ridiculous by the minute. No response. Just the old neighbours exchanging sympathetic glances:
Still not back?
Been gone a day now.
Well, cats do wander… have their own ways…
No, he wasnt just a cat. He was minepart of the home. Not once in seven years had he disappeared before.
On the third day, I began putting up posters. Each one with a photo: Archie on the windowsill, Archie curled up, Archie glaring into the camera with that familiar scowl. People called. Asked questions. One bloke insisted hed seen a cat like Archie at the market in another part of town. I went. Wasted an hour. Turned out to be a ginger dog. But not Archie.
A week on, word reached me that some teenagers had been seen loitering in the building. One even asked a resident whose cat was sitting on the fifth floor landing. Said things like, really tame, very calm, must be worth a fair bit…
You think someone took him?
Looks like it, I answered. And, for the first time, I couldnt hold back the tears.
A month passed. Then another. I tried to distract myself: keeping busy, going to work, listening to the sound of footsteps in the corridor and doors banging shut. Each time my heart leaptperhaps this time it was him. But it wasnt.
I eventually put the food bowl away. But the blanket I left out. Washed it, dried it, laid it out again. Just in case. You never know…
One day, my friend turned up with a kitten. A little grey thing, full of life and absolutely non-stop meowing.
You cant go on like this, as if youre in mourning, she said.
I kept the kitten. Named him Muffin. He was cheeky, affectionate, and utterly daft. But not Archie. Every time I stroked him, I still felt the emptiness inside. Not because the kitten was wrong, but because my heart still remembered the old one.
Nearly a year went by. Winter. Snowdrifts up to my knees, black ice everywhere. I was trudging home from work, lugging a heavy bag, muttering about the slippery steps and cursing myself for forgetting to buy tea again, when suddenly I heard a quiet scratching sound. Almost nothing, barely there.
I froze. Went to the door. Opened it.
There he was.
Archie sat on the doormat, emaciated and filthy, his ears frostbitten, legs shaking. And in his eyesthat look. As if to say: Well, where on earth have you been all this time?
I couldnt believe it at first. I got down to my knees. Held out my hand.
Archie?..
He didnt meow. Just slowly got up, walked to me, and pressed his head against my palm.
I started crying. Right there, in the hallway with the shopping bag and a loaf of bread, still wrapped up in my coat. The tears wouldnt stop. And he nuzzled and nudged me, as if he couldnt believe he was truly home either.
I let him in. Warm water. Bath. Food. He ate as if hed never seen food before. Then he climbed into the armchair and fell fast asleep, curled into a ball.
Later, we went to the vet. His tailfrostbitten, had to have the tip removed. A few teeth broken. Body battered and thin. Scars, bruises. But alive. Alive!
Someone definitely kept him, the vet said. Hes so used to people, and yet in such a state. Most likely stolen, then either dumped or he escaped. But somehow, he found his way back home.
He came back by himself
Its rare, but it does happen. They have an incredible sense of smell, and memory. We have no idea just how clever they are.
Since then, hes only slept in my bed. Wont touch the old blanket. Shows no interest in going outside. At first, he glared at Muffin, but has come to accept him. Now, they eat from one bowl, groom each other like brothers.
Sometimes I wonder: what if I hadnt opened the door then? Or if Id come home just a bit later?
But he waited. Waited all that time. Weak, thin, but alive.
Now, even if Im just nipping out for a minute, I always double-checkdid I leave the door shut properly?
Always.
If youve ever had something like this happen, feel free to share your stories in the comments. They matter.
