«No one will take this».
The shelter had no separate rooms; everything was packed into one huge, noisy hall. Along the lefthand brick wall sat the cat enclosures, and on the right the dog pens. Staff hurried past every few minutes some lugging bags of kibble, others carrying fresh rags, a few hoisting buckets of water to keep the drinkers full.
Visitors streamed in as well. A quiet, modest family a thin mother, Laura, a slender father, Mark, and their skinny son, Tom moved slowly from cage to cage, studying each resident with great care. A young couple whispered sweetly by the feline cages. An elderly gentleman with a cane ambled slowly along the dog pens. And I, having just crossed the shelters threshold, was overwhelmed by the smells, the clatter and the sheer number of animals.
In the first pen sat Milo, a tiny mongrel with a wildly wagging tail. He thumped a rubber duck with reckless enthusiasm, paying no heed to the people around him. A short distance away was the pen of Rex, a grim, jetblack hound whose eyes had seen too much. Beside that cage a girl in a bright puffer jacket squatted, murmuring softly to the dog as if trying to befriend him. To the left was a veritable cat show every breed, colour and size imaginable.
Louise, a sleek white cat, lounged on a pink pillow. Occasionally she would partopen a yellow eye and stare intently at anyone who approached. Hanging from the bars above her was Pip, a blackandginger kitten that reminded one of a cartoon houseelf: a big head on a tiny body. He let out a feeble squeak, flopped onto his back, then sauntered lazily to the corner of his enclosure where bowls of water and food waited. When he saw me drawing near, Pip instantly changed direction and darted toward me.
Youre a character, I muttered, slipping a finger through the bars to scratch Pip behind the ear. The bigheaded little fellow closed his eyes, purred contentedly and, as if playing, nibbled my finger ever so gently.
Look, Mum, how funny he is, whispered Tom, his voice hopeful as he ran to Pips pen. His parents, arriving a step behind, exchanged a quick glance and shook their heads in unison.
Hes tiny, Tom, his mother said softly. Tom grumbled something unintelligible, gave Pip a pitying stare and moved on. I sensed his parents were hoping for a dog, so they steered their son away from the cat cages. Pip didnt mind who petted him; the plumphead purred loudly, rubbing his head against my finger alternately with his left and right sides, even pretending to brush his teeth, which drew another grin from me.
Maybe this one? I turned to the farright corner of the hall, where a dark, quiet nook lay. Hes big and handsome.
Oh, no! his mother shook her head immediately. Lets look at the dogs instead. And that old one.
The old, the small Tom muttered, then sighed and trailed his parents toward the dog pens. His complaints quickly turned to laughter when he reached the shelters favourite resident a tiny bearlike pup called Teddy. The little fellow tottered around his cage, licking anyones fingers who tried to scratch him. Even the silent old gentleman smiled at the fluffy bundle, which was busy chewing a soft toy in the corner. My curiosity, however, was now pinned on the creature that had made Toms mother freeze in the far corner. I left Pip to his play and made my way toward the shadowed pen, drawing a deep breath as I approached.
Inside, on a grey blanket, lay an elderly cat. Just the sort youd find prowling any back garden a dignified gentleman whose years were drawing to a close. He didnt pace, didnt mew, and made no effort to attract attention. He simply rested, eyes clouded with a grey veil, barely purring. When I stepped closer, he halted his soft rumble, lifted his nose and let out a breath that sounded almost human. He then laid his head on his skinny paws and closed his eyes.
Thats Archibald, I whispered, startled by a cheerful male voice behind me. Turning, I saw the speaker a freckled shelter worker named Ben, his name badge flashing Ben.
Whats his story? I asked quietly, careful not to disturb the old cat.
Nothing much. Just an old timer, Ben replied, opening the cage and topping Archibalds bowl. The cat inhaled once more, rose slowly from the blanket, and shuffled toward his food, bumping his head against the bars a couple of times. Ben added apologetically, Hes blind. Cant see a thing. Our old chap.
How did he survive on the streets? I wondered, turning to Ben.
He never lived on the streets, Ben chuckled, shaking his nose as if apologising for the laugh. His owners dropped him off here when they got fed up caring for him. They didnt have time, but Archibald needs attention. Weve nursed him, though who really wants an old cat? Even our director, Grace, looked at him and said, No one will take this.
True enough, I agreed. They tend to take the young and the calm.
Except Daisy, Ben said, nodding toward the pen with the black dog and the girl beside it. Rex is a bit headstrong; shes trying to befriend him.
So whats the progress?
Slow, but steady. Folks who are loyal rarely approach, and Rex is exactly that sort. Like Archibald, Ben sighed. When Archibald arrived, he went a week without eating, just waiting for someone to take him. When anyone walks in, he sniffs the air, wags his tail, then, realizing its not for him, slumps back and mourns.
Is that why you keep him in the corner? To spare him extra stress? I asked. Ben nodded, pressing his lips together.
Exactly. Its a pity. He always springs up with hope, then collapses exhausted and sleeps almost till dusk. Most likely his life will end here. Who wants a blind, old cat? What about you? Seen anything you like? Maybe I can help.
I saw you with Pip, I said, recalling the kitten.
Yes, hes a funny little thing, Ben smiled. He was found on the street by a kid and brought here. Probably a stray from a litter. Good thing the dogs didnt claim him first. Pips tiny, and many people prefer older animals. Dont worry weve vaccinated him, cleared him of fleas, and even taught him the litter box. He wont cause any trouble, Ben grinned, peering at me. So, taking Pip home?
Yes, I think I will, I replied, glancing at the sleeping Archibald and adding softly, Can I adopt him together with Pip?
Seriously? Ben looked surprised, thought for a moment, then shook his head. Our policy only allows one animal per person. Hold on a minute; Ill check with Grace.
Sure, I said, watching Ben disappear, then turned back to Archibald, who seemed to understand my words. Hey, old chap. Fancy coming with me? Im not your owner, but I can promise you food, water and a friendly hand to pat you with
Before I could finish, Archibald stretched, inhaled the air, and waddled to the cage door Ben had left ajar while rushing to ask the director for permission. I extended my hand; the cat sniffed it carefully, then brushed his cheek against my fingers and gave a weak purr.
Seems like a yes, I smiled, gently scratching his ear.
Grace said its fine, a junior staffer burst in, grinning at the sight of me petting the old cat. Looks like youve struck a chord.
Why not? I shrugged. Two retirees, a flat and a cheeky little pookah all together.
Mind if I ask something? You know Archibald wont live long, right? the youngster asked quietly. I sighed, looking at the cat, who seemed to be waiting for my answer.
Because a creature should go out on a rainbow where its loved, not in a cold shelter where every visitor breaks its heart again and again, I replied. A soft whirring seemed to emanate from Archibalds chest, as if confirming my words.
Ill sort the paperwork, the assistant said, darting off to the back office, leaving me alone with the old cat. We stayed quiet for a while; I stroked his ear while Archibald purred gently, his clouded eyes gazing straight into my soul.
***
That evening, sprawled on the couch, I watched the telly while a small, frantic bundle named Pip curled on my chest. His fur still bore the dust of places my single hands never reached. He snored sweetly, occasionally extending tiny claws and nipping at my shirt.
Beside my left foot, on a grey blanket, lay Archibald. The elderly cat, curled into a ball, kept one paw on my thigh as if fearing I might vanish like his former owners. The moment I stirred, Archibald lifted his head, sniffed the air, and settled only when I gently scratched his head and whispered that I was still there.
Whenever I rose to the kitchen for a kettle, Archibald, bumping into corners now and then, trailed behind me, with Pip scampering like a tiny tail. After a while Pip learned the layout, slipping onto the kitchen counter without a hitch to reach his water and food bowls.
When I left for work, both cats escorted me to the door; Archibald lingered, watching me go, his eyes never moving. He would wait until I returned, then sniff the air, lick my outstretched hand and retreat to his grey blanket. At night they slept with me: Pip perched on a pillow, his fluffy rear resting on my head, while Archibald settled by my left leg, his thin paw draped over my thigh. I knew one day Archibald would go, but I hoped hed go where hes loved, not back to a cold shelter that keeps slamming doors on an old cats fragile heart.
