Dad, please dont take her away! sobbed my little sister, Emily, her nose red and puffy from crying. You cant give Daisy away, shes ours!
That Daisy of yours, Dad snapped as he jerked the steering wheel makes a mess everywhere. In the hall, by the fireplace, she even left a pile in my shoes yesterday. I cant do anything with her. She absolutely refuses to use her box. What am I supposed to do?
But, Dad…
But he cut her off.
Thats how it happened. Dad started the battered old white Ford Escort rusty in places, doors sticking while Daisy, bundled in a cardboard box on the back seat, mewed in a thin, miserable voice.
Dad, dont take her! Emily repeated, clutching the fence by the gate so tightly her knuckles went white.
Shes your Daisy, Dad repeated, and you wont clean up after her. Well, Ive had enough.
The car pulled away, bumping along the potholes, leaving Emily standing by the gate, silent tears streaming down her cheeks as the battered Escort turned the corner and disappeared from our little village in the Oxfordshire countryside.
The smell of rain and damp wood hung in the air, the low grey October sky pressing down. The wind tugged at Emilys plaits and the faded hem of her cotton dress.
Emily, come inside! Youll catch a chill! Mum called from the kitchen window, her voice worried. Why are you standing out there?
But Emily just stood, watching. Tears traced salty lines down her cheeks.
Daisy… our Daisy With her ginger fur, white paws, and the fluffiest chest. At night, she would purr on Emilys lap or curl herself into a ball near the fireplace. But now
Inside, the house smelled of stewed cabbage and fresh dough Mum was making pasties for supper. My brother, Peter (hes thirteen), my sister Sarah (eleven), and my other brother Ben (nine), all sat in the dining room with their exercise books and homework.
Well, they pretended to do homework. Peter scribbled into his notebook without even looking at the page, his brows knitted. Sarah hid behind her textbook but there was no hiding her red eyes. Ben, usually the noisiest, chewed his pencil in complete silence.
Its always like this, Peter said suddenly, flinging his pen onto the table. Dad decides and thats that. He doesnt care what we think!
Keep your voice down, Mum warned, kneading dough with quick, angry hands. He knows whats best. We already have three cats. Fluffy and Tigger use their box like they should. But your Daisy
She just needed a chance! Sarah wailed, wiping her nose. We could have trained her!
Trained? Mum snorted. And who would have done that? Me? Ive got cows to milk, pigs to feed, the allotment, and all of you lot Daisy wanted to be queen of the castle.
Wed have done it! Sarah protested. Wed have managed.
Its too late for that, Mum said sharply.
Quietly, Emily slipped through the door and sat at the window, watching the drizzle. The village looked so bleak: grey roofs, the garden brown and overgrown.
Mum do you think shell come home? Emily whispered.
Mum sighed, deep and heavy.
I dont know, love. I just dont know…
…
Half an hour later, Dad returned, dripping rain as he shrugged off his jacket and hung it on the peg, not looking at any of us.
Well? Mum asked.
Took her to the next village. Left her with the Bakers. They said theyd look after her.
Is it far? Ben wanted to know.
Three miles or so, maybe more, Dad muttered.
She wont come back, Sarah whispered.
And shed better not, Dad replied coldly. Enough about it. Boil the kettle, Im freezing.
Mum put a steaming mug in front of him with some pasta, which he ate quickly and in silence, fork clinking against the plate, chewing with a strange tired anger. The rest of us sat with food in front of us, untouched. We just stared at the plates, as if something inedible lay there.
That night, once everyone had gone up to bed, Emily tossed and turned. In our shared bed, she pressed close to Sarah, listening to the rain on the glass, the creaking of the beams, and the distant bark of some neighbours dog.
Sarah, are you awake? she whispered in the dark.
Yes, Sarah replied quietly.
Daisy will come back. I know it. Shell find her way home.
Dont be silly, Em. How could she? Dad drove her so far. Three whole miles for a little cat, thats another world.
Shes clever! Shell manage. She loves us!
Sarah didnt answer, just turned towards the wall. Emily lay there, wide-eyed, silently whispering as Grandma had taught us: Please, God, protect Daisy. Let her find her way back. Please
…
Meanwhile, Daisy huddled in the Bakers farmhouse, in the next village, beneath their old AGA stove. The couple were kind; they gave her a bowl of warm milk, let her have some food, even tried to stroke her. But Daisy didnt purr, didnt rub against their hands. She just curled tighter, small and lost among strangers.
Where was her home? Where were Emily, Sarah, Ben, Peter? Where was Mrs. Turner, who sometimes let her sneak a chunk of ham from the table? Where was the scent of home: the burning wood, hay, warm milk?
Everything here was different. The voices were strange. There was a hulking old tomcat, who hissed and growled if she even approached the dish.
She waited. All night. As soon as the farmers wife opened the door to step out for the morning hens, Daisy darted between her ankles and out into the wet.
Oi! Where are you off to? the woman called.
But Daisy was already gone across the vegetable patch, under the fence, onto the road. She ran until she was clear of the village, alone in the drizzling fields.
The rain didnt let up all day. Cold, relentless. Her ginger coat was slicked down to her frame, her paws slid over the muddy ground, claws dragged through cold earth.
She didnt know where she was heading only that something deep inside her kept burning. An ancient, stubborn instinct that whispered: This way further dont stop.
The day passed. She wedged herself under a decayed haystack, shivering from head to tail. Her stomach clenched with hunger. She tried to catch a mouse it slipped into a hole. She drank rainwater from a puddle sharp and earthy.
On the second day, she stumbled onto the road cracked, riddled with potholes, cars whooshing past and spraying cold filth. Daisy limped along the verge, sometimes stumbling, but always moving on.
That night she found an abandoned shed, wooden boards rotting, filled with the delicious smell of mice. She caught and ate one, barely chewing. For a while it eased the gnawing hunger.
On the third day, the first snow started. Wet, clinging to her back. Daisy left dark pawprints in the whitening ground, her pads pink and raw. But she kept going.
Because she knew far ahead, home was waiting. Home meant children, a soft corner by the fire, and Mrs. Turner who could scold but always stroked her head if she thought no one was looking.
On the fourth day came the familiar birch copse. Daisys heart thudded faster. She picked up her pace, nearly running this was the place where in summer the children picked blackberries, where Emily made daisy chains.
By the fifth day she reached the river not wide, but freezing cold. She splashed through, trembling, and clawed her way up the bank, sodden and weary.
On the sixth day, she started to cough. Mucus ran from her nose, her breath was wheezy. Still, she made herself move.
And then, at last, the seventh morning dawned. All muddy and snow-stained, Daisy crept up to our front gate and mewed a weak, croaky little mew. No one heard. She tried again, louder.
The door opened. Out rushed Emily barefoot in her nightdress.
Daaaaisy! she yelled, flinging open the gate and scooping Daisy into her arms. Mum! Dad! Everyone! Shes back! Shes really back!
Sarah, Ben, and Peter came tumbling after, and Mum hurried out, wiping her hands on her apron.
Oh heavens, just look at her Poor things skin and bone. And her nose shes caught a cold, Mum murmured, peering at Daisy.
Mum, we need to help her! Sarah pleaded.
Help her? Fancy calling a vet for a cat? Round here, the vets for cows and the odd pig, not moggies. Still, lets see what we can do…
She waved her hand. Warm some milk for her. And fetch an old towel. Well see how she goes
Dad appeared in the doorway, took one look at the ginger scrap in Emilys arms.
Found her own way back, did she? he muttered.
Dad, she walked all that way three miles, maybe even more! Just imagine, Peter cried.
Dad said nothing, just turned back into the house.
…
We carried Daisy inside, wrapping her by the fire with heated milk and old blankets. Sarah carefully wiped her fur with a towel, not wanting to hurt her.
Look at her poor paws, theyre bleeding Sarah whispered. Mum, look…
Mum knelt down and checked the wounds.
You poor creature Ben, fetch the antiseptic. Sarah, get some bandage. Well patch her up.
And her cold? Emily asked.
Her cold Mum thought for a moment. Well try chamomile. Old Mrs. Dawson knows about such things. Lets just keep her warm and well-fed. The rest, well well see
From then on, we nursed Daisy as though she were a baby. Emily barely left her side, always stroking and whispering to her. Sarah made chicken broth. Ben dragged out an old fleecy blanket. Peter, in a huff, rummaged with bits of wood and nails.
What are you doing? Sarah asked.
Litter tray, Peter muttered. So she finally learns properly. If were going to keep her, well make sure.
Do you think we can?
We have to.
Daisy coughed and sniffled for a whole week, her eyes weeping, her breathing rough. But we didnt give up we dosed her with chamomile and honey, kept her under the blanket, filled her bowl with anything shed eat.
Little by little, Daisy got better. Her cold faded, her eyes shone, her fur fluffed up beautifully.
Then we began to train her with the new litter tray. Peter set it in the corner, filled it with sand. Every time Daisy tried to settle elsewhere wed carry her over.
Here, Daisy, heres where you go, Emily patiently explained again and again.
Daisy grumbled, tried to bolt, but we persisted. Then, one day, it happened she hopped in herself, dug carefully, and used the tray exactly right.
Shes done it! Emily squealed. Mum, Dad! She used the tray!
Mum smiled for the first time in days.
There you go it could be done, after all.
Dad sat at the table with his paper, lifting his eyes towards Daisy, now calmly licking her paw beside the tray.
Stubborn old thing, he said quietly. Real strong-willed, you are How many miles did you walk?
Dad, you wont ever take her away again, will you? Emily asked shyly.
He hesitated, weighing his words, then nodded.
No. If she found her way back, it means she belongs here. With us.
Emily hugged him, clinging tightly as if the promise was the dearest thing in the world.
Thank you, Dad! Thank you!
Alright, alright he blustered, but he didnt sound angry at all.
…
Daisy lived with us for many years after that. She always used her litter tray, never went elsewhere. At night she purred by the fire, curled up in a tight ball. She chased mice as well as Fluffy and Tigger and we were all so proud.
Sometimes Dad watched her, shaking his head.
Shes got spirit, that one, hed say. She knows where her home is. No distance scared her off.
We all agreed. Because it was true: Daisy knew exactly where she needed to be, and she came back through rain, cold, hunger, and pain. Because at home, we were waiting for her.
And where someone is waiting that is life itself. And so, life carried on.
