When they ask me to check on the cat, in case old age has driven it mad, my eyes first scan the people around, not the feline. Strange behaviour in an animal almost always mirrors something in its owner.
It was Mrs. Thompson, the neighbour on the second floor of a cramped postwar council block, who called me. In winter the plaster shivers and the walls sigh. She said, Theres an old lady with a cat. Everybody used to visit her, now only the postman. She says everythings fine, but could you have a look? The cat sits by the door at five oclock every day, motionless, for hours. She pretends its no big deal.
I knocked. The door opened onto a petite woman with a neat bob and a woolen cardigan whose loops dangled like old fishing lines. Behind her, a battered cupboard displayed a china set, a wallmounted shelf crowded with tiny perfume bottles, and an ancient BBC Radio 2 that had been stuck on the same station for a decade. The air smelled of porridge, mint and something faintly familiar.
Good afternoon you must be the vet, she said. Come in, but dont take off your shoes; its cold.
Im a vet, I replied. Wheres the cat?
Oh, hes shy. Hes under the armchair. He doesnt like guests, but his own people can nap on him. He only comes out at night, and always at five.
The word five lodged in my mind; I didnt ask whether it was morning or evening, I just remembered it.
Sure enough, under the armchair lay a plump orange tabby, at least ten years old, nose dry, whiskers like radio antennas, eyes full of bewildered innocence, as if asking, Who are you and why have you entered my den? I perched on a cottonfilled pouffe, a relic from the days when people sewed their own furniture, and the old lady began to speak.
His routine is set in stone, she said. We have our porridge in the morning, I watch television, and he perches on the windowsill. At five, he sits by the door. Always.
Why five?
The children used to call at five. They dont any more, but he still waits.
You say hes fine what about you?
Me? I have enough. The TV works, theres porridge. What more could a woman ask for?
The cat slipped from under the chair, not toward me but toward the door, tested the handle for a squeak, then collapsed on a rug, pressing his head not on the floor but on a warm fold of a woollen coat that seemed never to be cleaned.
Hes waiting, the lady whispered. Maybe he thinks theyll return. I dont stop him. Let him hope.
I didnt lecture her about how cats dont truly wait, that they simply love routine, nor did I suggest more toys or enrichment. This wasnt just a cat and old age; it felt like something deeper, a private conspiracy between two souls: We sit here so no one notices how time slips by.
As I left, she said, If youre passing by, drop in. I can bake a scone, or just offer a cup of tea. The cat will enjoy it. I nodded, and a thought struck memaybe I, too, needed that waiting.
Two weeks later, driving through the same neighbourhood with a cat on an IV drip after surgery, I found my mind returning to the old lady more often than to any other patient. Every doctor has a case that pulls you back, not out of duty, but because it offers a quiet that feels like a librarycalm, comforting.
She didnt startle when I rang the intercom.
Teas ready, but the scone isnt yet, she said.
Inside, the cat sat exactly where he always did, on the same coat fold, as if the pause was merely a breath.
Hes now both my alarm clock and my calendar, she chuckled. If he doesnt purr at sunrise, its Monday, and Mondays make me feel poorly.
She didnt joke; she spoke plainly. She and the cat were luckythey had an honest relationship. He didnt promise a perfect life; he simply stayed. She didnt pretend everything was wonderful; she just set out a bowl of milk each morning.
You know, she said suddenly, I used to have a cuckoo clock. My husband fixed it on our first winter together. I later removed the hands because it hurt to watch time pass with no one to share it. The clock now hangs without hands, yet every day at five the cat perches by the door.
I stared at the lazy, rotund tabby on the rug, a Buddhist of the domestic world, and thought how we humans create elaborate systemsreminders, calendars, timersto keep track of what matters. Animals simply sit, wait, and thats enough.
I asked if the children still called.
Rarely. Theyre good people, just busy. I have my porridge, my cat, and you, doctor.
Im not really a doctor, I said. I just like listening.
Well then, youre a better doctor than any.
Before I left, I sat beside the cat. He didnt stir; only his tail twitched like an antenna. I brushed the coat; it was cold but still carried the scent of lifenot sorrow, but expectation.
Maybe theyll come back? the old lady asked suddenly.
Maybe, I answered.
Only the cat will notice first. Hes my radar. Yesterday he sat at the door at dawn and I spilled my tea, thinking it was a surpriseturns out it was the neighbour.
We laughed, a laugh that felt like it hadnt been heard in years. When I stepped out, snow began to fallsoft, powdery, the kind that crunches gently underfoot. In that crunch I heard a whisper: Soon.
I returned later with empty hands, no sample box, just me. Sometimes patients call not because theyre ill, but because theyre lonely, and you, as a vet, merely check that the eyes are still bright.
That day the old lady opened the door faster than usual.
I knew it. Hes been waiting by the door since sunrise, she said.
The cat brushed past me like a piece of furniture, settled by the wardrobe, not even meowing.
You know, he used to sleep at my husbands feet, right there in the crook of his knee. When he passed, she paused, he still lies there. At first I tried to move him, then I realised he was keeping a place for him.
We poured tea.
I found an old photo album, she offered. Want to see?
I did, not because I love albums, but because when someone pulls out memories, they seem to cleanse themselves, become more transparent.
One picture showed her husband in a deck chair, a cat at his feetidentical except a brighter orange, a slimmer tail, five years younger. The caption read, Summer, Dad, Morris and raspberries. Beside it, a little girl with curly pigtails smiled.
Thats Lily, the youngest. She loved the cat most of all. She now has her own children, her own cats I think shed recognise him if she saw him, the old lady added.
A few days later, my phone rang, a strained voice on the other end.
Is this Peter? The vet? I found your number on my mothers fridge. This is Lily, her daughter.
Yes, how can I help?
I wanted to ask the cat is it Morris? Is he still with you?
Yes, he still sits by the door.
At five?
At five.
The silence stretched.
That weekend the door didnt open immediately. I felt a knot tighten as the lock clicked.
Sorry, the old lady whispered, her hands trembling. I cried yesterday.
The cat sat in the corner with a brandnew red collar and a little bow.
Lily brought it, she said. She came with her son.
A pause.
My son is just like the catquiet, listening, then saying, Ill remember you forever.
She wept again, this time without pain.
I left later than usual. As I turned, I saw the cat perched at the window, watching me go, as if knowing that some of us are destined to return again and again, until everything is either completely silent or utterly warm.
