Let this night be his last, and let it end with beauty. He will gaze at his love, wish her a long life, then curl up at her window and slip into his dreams, never to return.
He has survived three winters in a rowno exaggeration. For a backalley cat, that endurance is almost a miracle; few stray felines last that long.
He was born in an ordinary terraced house, beside his mother, a cat who trusted people. Then life turned on a dime.
The owners perished in a crash, and their adult sonwho loathed cats and guarded his house with a fierce mastiffdecided the extra tenants must go. Without a second thought he ushered the whole feline family onto the street.
The first winter claimed them allmother, brothers, sisters. Hunger took some, frost killed others, while dogs or passing cars finished the rest. One orange kitten survived.
A groundskeeper spotted the tiny ginger ball, snatched it from its mother, hauled it down to the basement, and set it near the hot water pipes. He fed it through the cold months, and that is how it stayed alive.
No one gave him a name. Through a cracked basement window he slipped out, learning the homeless art of survival: steering clear of dogs, hiding from humans, scavenging bins, outwitting hunger.
Winter two found him alone. The former groundskeeper had been dismissed for drunkenness, and a stern replacement took overhe offered no food but at least didnt smash the window. That was enough; he survived another winter in the cellar, learning to fight for scraps and for life.
Winter three was the harshest. All the cellar windows had been glazed shut. Where could he go? Where to hide from the icy nights?
He had to find a new refuge. The cellars were sealed, but in one courtyard he discovered a forgotten pit where an old heating conduit ran just beneath the surface. Thick hedges cloaked the opening, and nobody in the neighbourhood knew of it.
He piled in rags and torn clothes, fashioning a nest. Overhead balconies cast shadows, and the snow fell lighteryet the hot pipe melted the snow, and the damp, freezing wind seeped to his bones.
He made it through that winter, emerging a gaunt spectre: skin and fur hanging in tatters, eyes forever alert. In streetcat terms, old age arrives early, and he was already counted as an elder. Food now came only as meagre scraps.
Then the pit was discovered. Before the first autumn rains, someone finally noticed the unsightly hole and decided to fill it in.
He came, as always, to sleep on the pipe and saw freshdug earth. He settled opposite a little mound and stared. It was, in essence, his death sentence. He realized there would be no more such spots; the few that remained were already claimed by other cats.
He took to sleeping in a damp heap of fallen leaves, shivering, yet still clinging to life. In that fragile state, on the edge of collapse, he fell in love.
Yes, he fell in love.
He allowed himself no hope. She was astonishingly beautiful: a wellgroomed house cat living on the ground floor of a tidy terraced house. She liked to sit on the windowsill and watch the world beyond. Hejust a stray belowwatched her. Inside his cold chest, something warmed.
One night he dared: he scrambled up a garden tree, leapt onto a wide metal awning that the houses owners had once used for winter storage, and from there he could see her behind the glass. He returned often, perched there, breathing in the sight of her and sighing.
He asked for nothing, only to admire. Sometimes she leapt to her food bowls, and he swallowed his own salivanot out of envy, but from a simple animal emptiness.
He decided that if fate were to claim him this winter, let it happen by her window. He would curl up, watch her, and leave not in fear but in warmth. He even smiled at the thought: a skinny ginger cat, quietly dying on his beloved windowsill.
One evening the lady of the house noticed him and shrieked, waving her arms. He fled, then returned, and again. The man of the housea gruff but solitary fellowsaw the scene and did not chase him away. He met the strays eyes and saw everything: hope, pain, weariness, devotion to the houses pretty cat. He could not send him off.
Instead, he began slipping morselsbits of meat, a sausage, a scrap of fishthrough the cracked window. The cat ate. One night the man stood by the glass, and the trembling ginger lifted a paw, pressed it to the pane, and mewed.
The house cat glanced first at the man, then at the orange visitor. Surprise flickered in her gaze.
You know, the man whispered, she doesnt like a second cat. I asked for a kitten, she refused.
He lowered his hands. The ginger understood. He felt no resentment. A house was for pedigree, clean, young, cuddly catsnot for ragged strays.
That evening was bitterly cold. He was soaked, shivering, and suddenly saw the pointlessness of it allno more leaves to rustle under, no more hidden corners, no endless struggle.
If the end was inevitable, let it be here, beside the window from which his little marvel watched. He resolved that this night would be his final one.
He wanted to meet his end with dignity: one last look at the one his heart had followed, a soft meow of something warm, a wish for her happiness and long life, then fade away. First, he would finish the last scrap the man had left, then, when she retreated to her cozy nest, he would curl up at the cold glass and slip into a dream from which no cat returns.
Snow began to fall unexpectedly, and the house cat watched, delighted, as white flakes twirled outside the pane and settled on the ginger cat perched on the sill. She laughed in her feline way, her eyes dancing with the snows ballet. She could not imagine that the beauty was slowly killing the one who stared at her through the icy glass. She knew nothing of frost, of freezing from the inside.
Meanwhile the orange cat grew stiff. The sausages lingering warmth dwindled with his fading strength. The wind burned his fur, the chill sank into his bones, and even sitting upright became a strain. He still watched her, but now he understood he could not hold on much longer.
He prepared for the farewell as if it were the most momentous event of his life. He wanted to go out beautifully: one more glance at his beloved, a gentle meow, a mental wish for her long, warm days. The plan was simpledevour the last bite the man tossed, wait for her to slip back inside, then, curled into a tiny ball at the frosty glass, step into his endless sleep.
The snowfall thickened, and the house cat, perched on her warm windowsill, followed the slow dance of the flakes. She loved how the white snow fell on the gingers back, a strange, pretty sight. For her it was a game, a lovely spectacle, not a death sentence. She never knew the street, never knew hunger, never felt the bite of the wind.
The ginger, outside, grew harder as the heat left his body. The last morsel of sausage gave a faint warmth, fading with each breath. His paws went numb, his tail froze, his eyes drooped. He still stared, but his body surrendered.
A strange calm washed over him; the cold no longer seemed harsh. A sleepy, soft blanket of drowsiness covered him like a shawl. He ceased fighting. The end was near.
He opened his eyes one final time and saw herthe very cat he had climbed to for the awning, the reason he had survived each day. How beautiful, he thought. What could be more perfect? A gentle death
His head bowed, his eyes shut. In his mind the window opened, gentle hands lifted him, stroked him, whispered tender words. Beside him stood the cat whose gaze had kept his heart beating, and together they walked toward a warm bowl of food.
What a lovely dream flickered through his mind.
The house cat continued to stare at the snow coating the gingers form. She meowed, soft and questioning, then tapped the glass with a pawno response. She meowed louder, then hammered at the pane, as if to ask, Why wont you answer?!
But the chill had already sealed his body. He could not hear. He sank into silence. Snow covered him like a shroud.
Whats she shouting at? a woman in the kitchen grumbled, glancing at the snowfall outside.
The man, rising from his armchair, looked toward the window. The cat pounded the glass, frantic. Suddenly something clicked in his mindher eyes, his orange friend. He sprang up, rushed to the window, and began pulling the shutters aside.
Are you mad?! his wife shrieked. Close it at once!
He did not hear her. The cat leapt, clawing at the glass. The window burst open, and wind and snow surged in.
He found a small, frostbitten mound in the corner, scooped it up, and carried it to the bathroom. The house cat followed, the woman trailing behind.
In the bathroom, he washed the chilled ginger cat in warm water, his fingers massaging the little chest, trying to coax life back. The house cat sat on the tub edge, eyes wet, purring softly.
Im doing what I can, he whispered, as steam rose. Please come back.
The cat mewed with him.
From somewhere far off, a voice seemed to call the ginger back, as if from another world. He wondered why he should returnhere was peace, calm, no pain. Yet then he heard her voice, the one that had kept him alive. Could she be that close? Just a glimpse
His eyes opened slowly, heavy as lead, finally meeting the mans flushed face and the house cats bright, grateful eyes.
Eat! the man cried, cradling the soaked ginger in his arms.
The house cat leapt onto the floor, twirled, and purred loudly.
Quick, towel! Hairdryer! the man shouted at his wife. They dried the cat, wrapped him in warm towels, and whispered kind words. The ginger lay still, unsure if he was dreaming. The house cat nuzzled his cheek.
This cant be real, he thought. Its too beautiful to be true.
Then the woman poured warm milk. The cat lapped it up, a hot wave flooding his throat. He coughed, nudged the bowl with a paw, then clasped it with both paws and drank greedily.
Hell live, the man declared confidently.
The house cat settled beside him.
Whats his name? the wife asked after a pause.
His name? the man smiled. Hes called Darling. Thats itDarling.
The cat meowed in agreement.
Now Darling lives in that flat. His coat shines, his tail is fluffy and regal, his eyes calm and grateful. They both perch on the windowsill, watching the street below. Darling sometimes remembers what it was like to be on the other side of the glass; a sigh escapes him. Then she rests a paw on his shoulder, as if to say, Youre home now. You belong to us.
Below, the stray cats who never made it inside still dart through the alleys, clinging to the hope of surviving another winter. They hope
