Flaky and Whiskers: A Tale of Rescue from the Heavens
“Darling Michael, which flaky pastry would you like—the one with beef, cheese, or perhaps one with curd?”
“Mu-um, I want the cheese one!”
“Very well, love. Mummy will get it for you now.”
The baker at the station shop slipped the pastry into a crisp paper bag. Outside, the frost bit deep, and evening melted into night. Mother and son walked through the snow-dusted park, where icy caps weighed down the branches, and the air hung still, crisp as fresh linen.
“Mu-um…”
“What is it now?”
“It’s horrid! I want the one with beef instead!”
“Oh, Michael! I asked you properly! You’re spoiled rotten!” The woman threw up her hands in exasperation.
With a flash of temper, the boy tugged free and tossed the unwanted pastry aside. It sailed through the air in a graceful arc before landing beneath a gnarled oak, its boughs wrapped in frost. The whisper of the wind carried something mournful, as if fate itself sighed.
But this pastry had a story. A long, hardworking, honest one.
It began in the golden fields outside York, where a tiny seed swelled beneath the summer sun, ripening in a stalk of wheat. Then came the harvest—the hum of the combine, the millstones grinding, the sacks of flour carted off to the bakery on Linden Lane. There, hands toughened by years of work kneaded the dough, folded layers of butter, and tucked in generous lumps of cheddar and herbs.
The pastry emerged from the oven golden, fragrant, dripping with warmth. Every bite carried care, craftsmanship—but fate had other plans. A child’s whim cut its journey short, and there it lay in the snow, stiffening into an icy husk. So much toil, so much love—all for nothing?
Whiskers was a street cat. Not one for cellars or parlours, he belonged to the sky and snow. Grey, just fluffy enough, with eyes like cut jade, he was a local legend—four years on the streets! A survivor. He lingered near the third doorstep, where the old dearies brought him scraps each day.
He’d tried domestic life once. A family from the fourth floor took him in. But Whiskers knocked over vases, clattered about at night, chased shadows. He couldn’t bear walls. His soul was wild.
Then came the nightmare. A man strutted into the yard with a monstrous hound—a brute with wild eyes. And that man, with a cruel grin, set the beast upon him. A chase through snowdrifts, over cars, across slick pavements. Whiskers made it. Scrambled up an elm—higher, higher, until fear pinned him to the thinnest branch.
But down? He’d never learned. The branch trembled under his paws, terror turned his bones to ice. He yowled for the old ladies. The first day, they fretted below, waving valerian, ringing the RSPCA: “Get him down, he’s stuck!”
“He’ll manage,” came the reply. “Let him be.”
The second day. A blizzard. The square emptied. Whiskers licked snow, gnawed twigs in desperation. Night stretched endless. Ice clotted his fur, froze him solid. By the third day, he no longer cried. Just sat. Silent. Spent. Frost in his veins, paws numb, heart stumbling. He was fading.
On the fourth day, the inevitable came—his grip failed. Like an autumn leaf, Whiskers spiraled down, scattering snowflakes, and landed deep in a drift. He shuddered. Couldn’t rise. Opened his mouth—no sound. The end?
Then—a scent. Sharp as sunlight in the dark. Food.
He peeled open his eyes. There, just before his nose, lay the pastry. Still faintly warm inside, frostbitten at the edges, but rich, buttery, real. A child’s bite marked it, yet it was enough.
Whiskers lunged. Sank his teeth in, tore, gulped, hardly daring to believe. He ate as though he’d never known hunger. That lump of dough and cheese, from field to frost, was his miracle. His second life. A gift from the heavens.
He staggered up. Scanned the square. The storm howled, but warmth prickled through him. Shaking off the snow, he limped toward the doorstep. The one where the old dearies lived.
“Whi-i-skers! Good heavens, he’s alive!” cried Auntie Nora, bursting onto the step.
“Whiskers! We rang, we begged, we waited! The RSPCA never came! And here you are, you silly old thing!”
The old ladies swarmed him like summer bees. Someone opened the door, someone brought a woolen blanket. And Whiskers—this time—didn’t fuss. He curled in a corner. Savoured his pastry.
And somewhere, in the warm glow of the bakery, a fresh batch of flakies slid into the oven. One of them, perhaps, was destined to save another life someday.
The end is never truly the end. Not for a cat. And not when a flaky pastry waits in the snow.
