None of them will be taken.
There were no separate rooms. Everything lay in one vast, clattering hall. Along the left brick wall stretched rows of cages for cats; along the right, mirrored, were cages for dogs. Shelter workers flitted past the cages like restless mothssome balancing bags of kibble, others clutching fresh rags, a few lugging buckets of water to sprinkle a little life into the drinkers.
Visitors filled the space, too. A quiet, modest familyslender mother Grace, slender father Edward, and their skinny son Oliverglided from cage to cage, lingering over each occupant. A young couple whispered by the feline enclosures. A silent old gentleman with a cane ambled slowly past the dog pens. And I, just having crossed the threshold, was stunned by the smells, the din, the sheer multitude of animals.
In the first cage perched Pip, a diminutive mutt with a tail that twitched like a frantic metronome. He thrashed a rubber duck with desperate vigor, oblivious to the people watching. A short distance away, a cage housed Ravenstout, black as a crows wing, eyes weathered by a hard life. Crouched beside the cage, a smiling girl in a bright puffer jacket whispered lowly to the dog, as if trying to befriend a stranger. To the left unfolded a true cat exhibition: every breed, colour, and size imaginable.
On a pink pillow slept Milly, a sleek white cat. Occasionally she cracked open a yellow eye and stared intently at anyone who approached. Hanging from the bars above her was Bramble, a chubby orangeblack kitten with a head too large for his body, softmewing and tumbling onto his back before sauntering lazily to the corner where bowls of water and food waited. The moment he saw me step toward his cage, Bramble snapped his direction and bolted toward me.
Youre a funny one, I muttered, slipping a finger through the bars and scratching Bramble behind the ear. The bigheaded fool closed his eyes, purred with contentment, and, as if playing, gave my finger a gentle nip.
Look, Mum, how cute, whispered the skinny boy, running up to Brambles cage. His parents, arriving together, exchanged a quick glance and shook their heads in unison.
Hes tiny, Oliver, his mother whispered. Oliver grunted something indecipherable, then nodded, cast a plaintive look at Bramble, and moved on. I sensed his parents preferred a dog, so they steered their son away from the cat cages. Bramble didnt care who petted him; the bigheaded kitten rumbled loudly, rubbing his head against my finger alternately with his left and right sides, even pretending to brush his teeth, which coaxed another grin from me.
Maybe this one? I turned, noticing the lanky boy frozen at the very back of the shelter, in a dim corner. Hes big and handsome.
Oh, no! his mother shook her head instantly. Lets go see the dogs instead. And that old one.
Old, small Oliver muttered, then sighed and trudged after his parents toward the dog pens. His grumbling turned to laughter the moment he reached the shelters favorite resident, a tiny bearlike pup named Masher. Masher toddled clumsily in his cage, licking every finger that reached for a scratch. Even the silent old gentleman smiled at the fluffy tumbleweed, who twitched a soft toy in the corner. Yet my curiosity lingered on the creature that frightened Olivers mother in the far, dark nook. I left Bramble to his nap and drifted toward that shadowed corner, drawing a deep, weary sigh as I approached the last cage.
Inside, on a grey blanket, lay an old tomcat. Nothing more than the countless alley cats that haunt any British back garden, yet carrying the bearing of a tired nobleman whose days were winding down. He made no hops, no meows, no desperate calls for attention. He simply lay, his eyes veiled by a grey film, murmuring faintly. When I leaned in, he stopped his soft purr, inhaled a sigh that sounded almost human, and then, placing his head on his thin paws, closed his eyes.
Thats Archibald, I whispered, startled by a cheerful male voice behind me. Turning, I saw the sourcea freckled shelter worker with a badge reading Basil.
Whats his story? I asked, trying not to disturb the old cats peace.
Nothing much. Just an old soul, Basil replied, opening the cage and topping Archibalds bowl. The cat sniffed the air, rose slowly from the blanket, and shuffled toward the food, bumping his nose against the bars a couple of times. Basil added sheepishly, Hes blind. Cant see a thing.
How did he survive on the streets? I asked, turning to Basil.
He wasnt a street cat, Basil chuckled, wiggling his nose as if apologising for his amusement. His owners handed him over when they grew tired of caring for him. They were busy, and Archibald needed attention. We nursed him, but who wants an old blind cat? Even our director, Nora, when she first saw him, said, No one will take him.
Right, I agreed. They take the young and the calm.
Except Daisy, Basil nodded toward the cage with the black dog and the girl beside it. Dante here is a stubborn one, and shes trying to befriend him.
So?
Bit by bit. Loyal dogs rarely approach strangers, and Dante is just that. Like Archibald, Basil sighed. When we first brought Archibald in, he didnt eat for a week. He just waited, hoping someone would claim him. When a person steps in, he sniffs the air, wags his tail, then, realizing its not for him, curls back up and sighs.
You hid him in the corner to spare him more disappointment? I probed. Basil nodded, his lips tightening.
Exactly. Its sad; every time he lifts his head with hope, he collapses and sleeps until evening. Most likely his life ends here. Who needs a blind old tomcat? Who caught your eye? Maybe I can help? Basils eyes brightened. I saw you at Brambles cage.
Yeah, a funny little thing, I smiled, recalling the bigheaded kitten.
Hes new. Kids found him on the street and brought him in. Probably a stray from a mother cats litter. Good thing the dogs didnt snatch him first. Weve vaccinated him, cleared him of fleas, even taught him the litter box. He wont make a mess, Basil grinned, leaning close. So, will you take Bramble home?
Yes, I will, I said, glancing at the sleeping Archibald and adding softly, Could I take him too?
Seriously? Basil stared, thinking for a moment before shaking his head. We only allow one animal per adoption. Wait here while I check with the director.
Alright, I agreed, watching Basil disappear, then turning back to Archibald, who seemed to understand. Hey there, buddy. Come with me? Im not your owner, but I can promise you food, water, and a bigheaded hedgehog to tease your tail
I didnt finish, because Archibald lifted his head, inhaled, and padded to the cage door that Basil had left ajar. I extended my hand; the cat sniffed it cautiously, brushed his cheek against my fingers, and let out a faint purr.
Looks like a yes, I said, stroking his ear.
Nora said its fine, Basil rushed back, smiling at the sight of me petting the old cat. Looks like youve found common ground.
What else could we do? I shrugged. Two old bachelors, a big flat, and a hedgehog for good measure.
The question is, why take him? Basil asked quietly. You know Archibald wont live long.
I sighed, meeting the cats gaze, his eyes clouded like a misted window. Because you go to the rainbow where youre loved, not to a cold shelter where every door slam breaks a heart.
A tiny motor seemed to hum in Archibalds chest, as if affirming my words.
Ill fill out the paperwork, Basil said, dashing to the back office, leaving me alone with the old cat. For the rest of the time we sat in quiet companionship; I stroked his ear, and Archibald purred, his blind stare somehow looking straight into my soul.
***
That night, sprawled on the couch, I watched the telly while a small, frantic bundle named Bramble settled on my chest. His fur still clung to dust from the hidden corners my single hand never reached. He snored sweetly, occasionally extending tiny claws and nibbling at my shirt.
Beside my left foot, on a grey blanket, lay Archibald, curled into a ball. His paw rested on my thigh, as if fearing I might vanish like his former owners. The slightest movement made him lift his head, sniff the air, and calm only when I gently patted his head and whispered that I was there.
When I rose to the kitchen for a kettle, Archibald, bumping into corners, shuffled after me, with Bramble trailing like a tiny tail. Over time, Bramble learned the layout, navigating the hallway without mishap, finding his water and food bowls without a wobble.
When I left for work, both cats escorted me to the door; Archibald lingered, his gaze fixed, while Brambles tiny tail swayed behind. As I stepped out, Archibald seemed to freeze, then, after a moment, inhaled, licked my outstretched hand, and retreated to his grey blanket. At night they slept beside me: Bramble perched on my pillow, his fluffy rear a soft crown on my head; Archibald nestled against my left leg, his thin paw resting on my thigh. I knew one day Archibald would go, but I hoped hed depart to a place where love waits, not to a chilly shelter where every door slam shatters an old cats heart.
