Let this night be the last one, and let it end with a touch of grace. Ill stare at the love that lives behind that pane, wish her a long, happy life, then curl up at her window and slip into my dreams, never to return.
I have survived three winters in a row and Im not exaggerating. For a street cat, that kind of endurance is almost miraculous; most alley toms never make it that far.
I was born in a modest terraced house, next to my mother, a gentle tabby who trusted people. Then everything changed in an instant.
The owners were killed in a car crash, and their grownup son, a man who loathed cats and kept a fierce watchdog, decided the extra occupants had to go. Without a second thought he shooed our whole feline family onto the pavement.
The first winter took everyone mother, brothers, sisters. Hunger claimed some, the bitter cold killed others, while a few fell prey to stray dogs or were run over by passing cars. Only one survived a ginger kitten.
A caretaker from the council estate found him. Found is a generous word; he merely spied the tiny orange bundle, snatched it from the mothers claws, lugged it down to the basement, and set it near the warm pipes. He fed it through the long, bleak months.
Thats how I stayed alive.
No one gave me a name. Through the cracked basement window I would slip out, learning the streets ruthless school of survival keeping clear of dogs, hiding from prying eyes, scavenging rubbish, outwitting hunger.
The second winter came and I was alone. The first caretaker was dismissed for being drunk, and a stern replacement took over. He didnt feed me, but at least he didnt shut the basement window with a brick. That was enough; I survived another cold season, learning to fight for food and for life.
The third winter was the harshest. All the basement windows were now glazed shut. Where could I go? Where could I hide from the icy nights?
I had to find a new refuge. The basements were sealed, but in one courtyard I discovered an odd spot: an old, forgotten pit with a buried heating pipe. Hot water ran just beneath the surface, the earth steaming where the pipe lay. Thick brambles hid the hole, and the locals never noticed it.
I dragged in bits of rag, old clothes, and fashioned a makeshift nest. Balconies loomed above, sheltering me from most of the snowfall, though the pipes heat melted snow and the damp wind still cut to the bone
I made it through the winter, but emerged looking like a ghost skin stretched over bone, fur in ragged tufts, eyes forever wary. In streetcat terms, old age arrives early, and I was already counted as an old soul. Food now came only as pitiful scraps.
Then the pit was discovered. Just before the first autumn rains, someone finally noticed the unsightly hole and decided to fill it in.
I came to my usual perch on the pipe one night, only to find fresh earth covering the spot. I sat on the little mound and stared. It felt like a death sentence. I realised there was no other hidden place left; the few that existed were already claimed by other cats.
I settled down in a damp pile of fallen leaves, shivering, but still clinging to life. And it was in that fragile state, teetering on the edge, that I fell in love.
Yes, you heard right I fell in love.
I gave myself no false hope. She was a stunning porcelainwhite Persian who lived in a tidy flat on the ground floor. She loved perching on the windowsill, watching the world outside. I, a ragged orange ghost, sat below, eyes fixed on her. Somewhere in the cold, something warm began to stir inside me.
One evening I gathered my courage: I scrambled up a garden wall, leapt onto a broad metal awning that once stored pantry supplies in winter, and settled there. From then on I visited the awning often, perched and gazed through the glass at her, sighing softly.
I asked for nothing. I simply admired her. Occasionally shed hop down to her food bowls, and I would swallow my own hunger not out of envy, but from a raw, animal emptiness.
I decided that if fate were to claim me this winter, I would go out on my terms, right by her window. I would curl up, watch her, and leave not in terror but in quiet warmth.
I even smiled at the thought: a skinny ginger cat, dying peacefully at his beloveds sill.
One day the lady of the flat spotted me and shrieked, waving her arms. I bolted, then returned, and came back again.
Her husband, a burly man named James Whitaker, saw me and didnt shoo me away. He met my eyes and saw there everything hope, pain, fatigue, and a fierce devotion to the housecat. He could not drive me off.
Instead, he began slipping bits of meat, a small cutlet, a sausage, through the slightly ajar window. I ate gratefully. One night James leaned against the glass, and I, trembling, lifted my paw, placed it on the pane and let out a soft meow.
The housecat, named Elsie, looked first at the man, then at me. Surprise flickered in her gaze.
You know, James whispered, she doesnt like a second cat. I asked for a kitten, she turned me down. He lowered his hands. I understood. I held no grudge. This house was for pedigreed, clean, young, pampered pets, not for a stray like me.
That evening the air was bitterly cold. I was soaked, shivering, and suddenly realised there was no point in anything else no more searching for a corner, no endless fighting to survive.
If the end was inevitable, let it be here, beside the window where my little miracle watches.
So I resolved: let this night be the last.
I wanted a dignified finale. I would look once more at the cat who had captured my heart, give a soft, warm meow, wish her happiness and many more years, then disappear. First I would finish the morsel James had left, then, when she retreated to her cosy nest, I would curl up at the cold pane and drift into a sleep from which there is no waking.
Snow began to fall unexpectedly, and Elsie watched, delighted, as white flakes twirled outside and settled on my orange back. She laughed in her cat way, eyes sparkling at the dance. She could not have imagined that the beauty was slowly killing the one who watched her through the icy glass. She knew nothing of frost, nothing of freezing from the inside.
Meanwhile I grew rigid. The sausage Id eaten an hour earlier gave a faint spark of heat, but it faded with my dwindling strength. The wind bit, the cold seeped into my bones, and even sitting upright became a strain. I still stared at her, but I knew I could not hold on much longer.
I prepared for this parting as if it were the most important event of my life. I wanted to go out beautifully: one last look at my love, a gentle meow of goodwill, a silent wish for her long, warm days. The plan was simple eat the last scrap James had tossed, wait for her to disappear into the flat, then, curled into a tiny ball at the frigid glass, step into my dreams a place without cold, without hunger, only sleep that never ends.
The snowstorm intensified, and Elsie, perched on her warm sill, watched the slow ballet of the flakes. She liked how the white curtains fell on my orange fur, a strange but charming sight to her. For her it was a pretty spectacle, almost a game. She didnt realise the pattern spelled death. She didnt understand that snow meant frost, that wind meant pain, that hunger meant torture. Shed never known the street.
I, on the outside, grew stiffer by the minute. The sausages warmth was gone, each breath grew heavier, my paws went numb, my tail hardened with ice. I still gazed at her, but my body was failing.
She kept staring at her mysterious admirer, while I could no longer sit upright. My back trembled, my eyes closed. I lifted my gaze one final time, pressed my cold nose to the glass, and, without waiting for her to leave, curled into a tight little ball.
My body shivered violently. The cold chewed every bone. I tried to breathe into my side, hoping to summon a flicker of heat, and it seemed to help, but the frost was stronger. It stole my life piece by piece, slowly but surely.
Then, oddly, a feeling washed over me: the chill faded. A sleepy, soft blanket of drowsiness covered me like a shawl. I decided not to fight. The end was near anyway.
I opened my eyes once more and saw her the very cat that had driven me up the awning, the reason Id survived all those days. How beautiful, I thought. What could be more lovely? A gentle death
My head drooped, my eyes shut. In that moment I imagined a window opening, kind hands lifting me, stroking me, whispering tender words. Beside me stood Elsie, the one who made my heart race, and together we walked toward a warm bowl of food.
What a lovely dream, flickered through me.
Elsie kept watching the snow that blanketed me. She let out a soft, questioning meow, tapping the glass with a paw. No answer came. She meowed louder, then banged the pane harder, as if shouting, Why wont you answer?!
But the cold had already tightened around me. I could not hear. I was slipping into silence.
The snow turned me into a white mound, covering me like a shroud.
Whats she shouting about? a woman in the flat muttered irately. Looking at the snow?
James lifted his head from the sofa, stared at the window. Elsie was still pawing at the glass. Then something clicked for him. He remembered her eyes, and his own memory of the orange stray.
He sprang up, rushed to the window, and started pulling the shutters aside.
What are you doing?! his wife shrieked. Are you out of your mind? Close it now!
He didnt hear her. Elsie kept jumping, yowling.
The window burst open, and wind and snow poured in.
Close it! his wife yelled, but he was already searching. He spotted a small, frostcovered mound in the corner.
He scooped up the icy little body and carried it to the bathroom. Elsie followed, the woman trailing behind.
The bathroom filled with steam as James bathed the shivering ginger with warm water. Elsie perched on the edge of the tub, watching his face, soft whimpering.
Im doing what I can, James whispered, rubbing the cats tiny chest, trying to coax life back. The woman stood in the doorway, silent.
He coaxed, Please come back
Elsie mewed along with him.
Then, from somewhere far away, a voice seemed to call the cat back. He wondered, Why? Its so peaceful there, why return to pain?
But then he heard Elsies soft purr, the very sound that had kept him alive each day. Could it be shes near? Just one look
His eyes opened slowly, as if weighty lids were lifted. He saw James, flushed with emotion, and beside him, Elsie, alive, eyes bright with joy.
There! There you are! James cried, cradling the damp orange in his arms.
Elsie leapt onto the floor, spun around, and purred loudly.
Whats the matter? James turned to his wife. Quick, a towel! A hairdryer! Fast!
They dried the cat with soft towels, blew warm air, stroked his fur, whispered gentle words. The ginger lay, bewildered, unsure if it was a dream. Elsie nudged his cheek, purring.
It cant be real, James thought. Its too beautiful to be true. Id have given my life for this.
Then the woman handed him a mug of warm milk. The cat took a sip, a wave of heat rolling down his throat. He coughed, pawed the bowl, then clutched it with both paws and began licking avidly.
Hell live, James said confidently.
Elsie settled against him.
Whats his name? his wife asked after a pause.
Hes called LovedOne, James replied with a grin. Thats right LovedOne.
Elsie meowed, as if to approve.
From then on LovedOne lived in that flat. His coat shone, his tail grew fluffy and regal, his eyes calm and grateful.
They both sit on the windowsill, watching the street below. LovedOne sometimes remembers the cold side of the glass. When a sigh escapes him, Elsie rests a paw on his shoulder, as if to say, Youre home now. You belong to us.
Down at street level, the other strays still roam, hoping to survive the coming winter.
They still hope
