A ruststained garbage lorry rumbled into the backalley tip. From the concrete slab a massive grey rag was flung into the air. The caretaker, Mr. Miller, muttered and moved to sweep it up, but the rag squirmed like a living thing and slipped behind the bins. Peering into the narrow gap between the steel fence and the containers, he spotted a huge slatecoloured cat, its eyes wide with panic.
The longawaited, universally beloved summer had slipped away. Its crownAugustthis year turned unseasonably cool and drizzly, counting down its final breaths.
At dawn a sleek foreign motorcar glided into one of the towns courtyards. Mr. Miller, raking the unusually damp, rainslicked leaves that fell earlier than usual, immediately noticed the vehicle. No resident in the sleepy lane owned such a polished automobile.
Behind its tinted windows, the interior was a mystery. Perhaps theyre here to visit a neighbour, Miller thought, but he was wrong.
The car lingered a minute, then rolled toward the rubbish bins and halted. The passenger door cracked open, and a huge grey rag was hurled onto the concrete.
Even the owners wont even toss it in a bin, Miller grumbled, hurrying to clear the misplaced debris. The car rolled off, passing the irate caretaker.
His haste proved futile. The rag, alive, slithered away behind the containers. Miller slipped his gaze into the narrow crevice and saw a massive grey cat, curled tight, trembling like a frightened bird.
What on earth? he muttered. Why do the wicked folk of our court take a liking to this place? First a tiny puppy, then two kittensthankfully their owners collected them. Now this grown cat has been dumped. Who would want such a hulking stray? Hell end up a vagrant here. Come out, dont be shy.
The cat did not lift its head, tucking it deeper beneath its paws.
Come out before the garbage lorry returns and crushes you with its bins, Miller urged.
The feline remained stonestill, a statue of an ostrich in an uncomfortable but, in its eyes, safe pose.
Disappointed, Miller trudged on. His duties were public, his work on display. He had to finish cleaning and move to the next yard.
What a lot of people he muttered, shaking his head.
Thus the great grey Britishbred cat found itself in a foreign garden, suddenly bereft of roof and comforts that domestic pets enjoy but street wanderers lack.
When the garbage lorry finally arrived, the cat, seized by panic, bolted from its hideaway and lunged into the yard. With nowhere else to hide, the newly homeless creature dove into the grass beneath a large bench and lingered, lost in bitter thoughts.
The world spun upside down in the cats mind. He could not fathom why he was there or what to do next. Deep within, a flicker of hope glimmered: perhaps his owners would return and claim him. Better a house than this place. So he resolved to stay put, waiting, lest they come and find him missing.
Mrs. Green, having married off her daughter Blythe, lived alone on the second floor of a modest fivestorey block. Blythe lived with her husband in the same town and visited often.
They were not merely mother and daughter but the closest of friends, sharing every secret, with no hidden grudgesa rarity even among the dearest of kin.
The residents, spotting the clean, composed cat, assumed he belonged to someone and simply roamed the yard for a stroll. Mrs. Green believed the same, watching the majestic grey beast with quiet admiration.
When the yard was empty, the cat, seeking a better view and safety, clambered onto the bench that, with autumns arrival, no one claimed any longer.
People hurried past, absorbed in their errands, paying little heed to the sullen sentinel on the bench.
He slept there because there was nowhere else to go. Seeking refuge far afield was dangerous; at any moment his owners might returnso he thought.
Food was scarce. Thanks to the diligent caretaker, the yard was spotless. The cat could scavenge only what the dump offered, but he faced fierce rivalscackling crows, plump and confident, their strong beaks flashing as they arrived in noisy flocks, always first to claim a find.
The birds rummaged through the rubbish, eyes sharp. Try to get close, they seemed to croak, and youll get pecked, teeth or claws wont help. Even the occasional stray dog shied from them, and the cat grew weaker each day.
Weeks of street life transformed the oncewellkept feline into a creature unmistakably stray. The residents, fearing disease or scratches, forbade children from approaching him.
Yet a few kind souls, among them Mrs. Green, quietly fed the starving cat. Autumn asserted itself, drenching the earth with long, dreary rains that washed everything a muted grey.
The cats mood matched the weather; his spirit fell as low as the clouds, realizing no one would come for him again.
A compassionate young woman, Sophie, heard the caretakers tale and took note of the abandoned feline. She often rescued owners for stray fourlegged wanderers.
Sophie tried to find a winter home for the cat, but residents, wary of adopting a stray tossed out for unknown reasons, declined her pleas. After consulting relatives, she hesitated, and Mrs. Green, fearing she couldnt handle a fullgrown cat, stayed out of the picture.
Unbeknownst to them, each evening the cat, after conquering his fear, scrambled up the fireescape beside Mrs. Greens balcony and perched in the flower box attached to it. From there he gazed long into the kitchen window, inhaling the comforting aromas of homecooked meals, yearning for the warmth he had lost.
Two months of homelessness passed. Nights grew cold, and the damp, despondent cat resigned himself to the bench.
During the November holidays, Blythe and her husband Evan arrived for a sleepover at Mrs. Greens. She spent the day bustling in the kitchen, preparing a roast, salads, pies, and setting a generous spread. They lingered over food and conversation until late.
Rains back, and theyre promising snow by morning, Blythe remarked.
Mrs. Green placed a teacup on the table, drew back the curtain, and let out a soft sigh, hands clasped to her chest. The frightened grey cat stared up at her.
In an instant the cat leapt backward, almost slipping from the slick, wet railing.
Whats wrong, Mum? Why are you so frightened? Blythe asked.
The cat on the balcony, the one that always sits on the bench, got scared too. What if he falls?
How did he get up there? Evan wondered.
They stepped onto the balcony and saw the cat, hunched on the bench, fluffing his damp fur, trying to preserve the few remnants of warmth that the open window had offered.
I see. He must have climbed the fireescape, Evan said.
Brave thing. We should give him something to eat, Mrs. Green suggested.
They lingered in the chilly air, then put a kettle on the stove to boil water. Mrs. Green, lost in thought, sat at the table while Blythe poured tea for everyone.
Here, Mum, a slice of cake with a rose on top, just like you like, Blythe said, handing her a piece. Drink the tea while its hot.
Mrs. Green drew the curtain back, tears glistening, and stared out the window.
No, I cant stay like this, she whispered, taking a piece of roast and heading to the hallway.
Ill be right back, she declared, pulling on a worn coat.
The cat, trembling in her arms, transformed once more into a limp grey rag, its paws dangling helplessly. Mrs. Green cradled the shivering stray and carried him inside.
No one ever asked Mrs. Green why she did it. They didnt, because she alone among the many yard dwellers acted with genuine humanity.
The rescued cat spent a week napping on a warm radiator. Delicious food mattered far less than the comforting domestic heat. Mrs. Green christened him Percy Prentice, adding a dignified middle name, Percy Prentice Pritchard, to suit his newfound respectability.
Against all expectations, Percy turned out to be an impeccable gentleman, conducting himself with refined manners. If there ever was a perfect cat, it was Percy Prentice Pritchard, a cultured soul accepted fully into the family and beloved by all.
Sometimes his owner jokes, Percy Prentice Pritchard, for what crimes were you cast out and left to the bench?
The wandering cat remains silent. He lacks human speech, and even if he possessed it, he could not answer, for he does not know himself.
Percy has lived in Mrs. Greens caring home for nearly two years. He is fed, petted, and content. Yet whenever a raised voice pierces the air, the memory of his former domestic life resurfaces; the large, strong cat curls on the floor and retreats into himself.
All who know the great grey cat are left guessing. For what reason was the perfect cat, Percy, thrown out?
