Oh, you’ll love this one—it’s about a little pastry and a street cat, both having a rough time till fate steps in.
“Mum, which kind of pastry—beef, cheese, or maybe the cottage cheese one?”
“Cheese, please!”
“Alright, sweetheart, I’ll get you one.”
The baker at the train station tucked the flaky pastry into a clear paper bag. Outside, frost bit the air, evening sliding into night. Mum and her boy cut through the snowy park, where branches groaned under their icy coats, and the air was crisp and still, like glitter in the dark.
“Muuuum…”
“What now?”
“It’s yuck! I want the beef one instead!”
“Oh, Oliver! I literally just asked you! You’re so spoiled!” She threw her hands up, exasperated.
With a huff, the boy yanked his hand free and tossed the unwanted pastry. It spun through the air and landed under a gnarled pine, its branches weighed down by ice. The wind whispered through the snow like it knew something sad was coming.
But that pastry had a story—long, hard-earned, real.
It started last summer, in the golden fields near Oxford. A tiny seed grew plump in the sun, swaying in the wheat. Then came the harvest, the mill, the flour sacks, the trip to the bakery on Maple Street. There, bakers with rough hands rolled the dough, layered it with sharp cheddar and herbs, folded it again and again.
The pastry came out of the oven golden, buttery, smelling like heaven. Made with care. But—no luck. A kid’s whim cut its journey short, and now it lay in the snow, freezing into something lifeless. All that work, all that warmth—for nothing?
Whiskers was a street cat. Not a basement cat, not a flat cat—he belonged to the sky and the snow. Grey, just fluffy enough, with emerald eyes, he was a local legend—four years on the streets! The old-timer. Lived by Flat 3, where the grandmas fed him scraps every day.
He’d tried being a house cat once. A family on the fourth floor took him in. But Whiskers knocked over vases, raced shadows at 3 a.m., couldn’t stand closed doors. His soul was wild.
Then disaster struck. A bloke with a massive, snarling dog let it loose on him. A chase through the snow, over cars, icy pavements—Whiskers barely made it. He scrambled up a tree, higher, higher, till his heart pounded in his ears.
But down? No clue. The branch under his paws was thin, fear turned his bones to stone. He yowled for the grandmas. First day, they fretted below, waving valerian, calling the RSPCA: “Get him down, he’s stuck!”
“He’ll figure it out,” they said. “Cats always land on their feet.”
Second day. Blizzard. People vanished. Whiskers ate snow. Gnawed twigs from hunger. Night felt eternal. Ice crusted his fur, turning him into a shivering lump. Third day—he stopped crying. Just sat there. Silent, weak. Cold bone-deep, paws gone numb, heart stumbling. He was fading.
Then, day four—the inevitable. His grip failed. Whiskers fell like a dead leaf, swirling through snowflakes, thudding into a drift. He shuddered. Couldn’t stand. Opened his mouth—no sound. The end?
Then—smell. Hit him like sunlight in the dark. Food.
He pried his eyes open. Right there, in the snow—the pastry. Still warm inside, frozen on the outside, but rich, cheesy, real. A kid’s bite taken out, but good enough.
Whiskers lunged. Sank his teeth in, tore, gulped like he’d never eaten before. That buttery, flaky gift—from field to bin to miracle—saved him. A second chance. A blessing from above.
He staggered up. Shook off the snow. The blizzard howled, but warmth flickered in his veins. He bolted for Flat 3, where the grandmas lived.
“Whiskers! Oh my days, he’s alive!” Auntie Margaret screeched, nearly tripping off the step.
“You daft thing! We rang everyone, begged the RSPCA—useless! And you just dropped out the sky!”
They swarmed him like he was the sun itself. One flung the door open, another brought a heated blanket. And Whiskers? He crept inside. This time, no chaos. He curled up in a corner. Savored his pastry.
And back at the bakery, just then, another batch of pastries slid into the oven. Maybe one of them would save a life too.
The end? Nah. Just another start. Especially if you’re a cat. Especially if you found a pastry.
