Throw him out on the street, she said. Found the neighbours house cat under a layer of snow, but his owner refused to help.
Id never been overly fond of the neighbours tomcat. I wasnt against cats in general, but this massive, brash tabby had really got under my skin one day.
This is a story about why its so important to stay human, no matter whats happening in your life.
The summer before, the neighbours cat, Thomas, had taken to using my vegetable patch as his personal lavatory. More than once, Id caught him in my tiny garden, meticulously pawing at the soil as though he were conducting an archaeological dig. Id yell and shoo him off, but he would calmly saunter away, unfazed. My cottage, which Id inherited from my gran, was on the edge of a village just outside Oxfordperfectly placed for a quick nip into the city but surrounded by proper rural charm.
Wander a bit further down the lane and youd be amongst farmhouses and hedges; while a short walk the other way would land you near the bus stop to Oxford city. When Gran was alive, I loved visiting. Even after she passed, Id come down on weekendsinvite some mates, fire up the barbecue, pick wild strawberries. The nearby woods were full of mushrooms; an hours stroll and youd fill a basket. Peace, fresh aireverything you need to feel at ease. My cousin, Alicethe daughter of Uncle John, my mums brotherlived in the same village and was my closest friend since childhood. With rivers, gardens, and friends about, there was never time to get bored.
In my little patch, I grew a few rows of radishes, some herbs, and spring onions. Not much, but it was mine. And it was Thomas, the neighbours cat, who was trampling through it like he owned the place. I took my concern to his owner, Mrs Green. She just rolled her eyes: Well, what dyou want me to do? Stand guard all day? If youre that bothered, throw a stick at him if you catch him!
Her attitude was chilly, but it made sense. Thomas had belonged to her late husband, Mr George Green. Mrs Green always loudly declared, I wouldnt have a cat if you paid me!she was an out-and-out dog lover. But once George died, she was left with Thomas, like it or not.
Thomas wasnt one for pampering. He caught mice by the dozen, and rumour had it hed nabbed a fish or two as well. Back in the day, hed go fishing with Mr Green. All he wanted now was a roof and somewhere warm in winter.
I ended up in an ongoing feud with Thomas. I tried talking to him, bribing him, even feeding him treats from the city. He ignored my urban snacks and eyed my attempts at kindness from a safe distance, never coming within arms reach.
Once, I sprayed him with freezing water from the garden hose. On another day, I marched out with my whistle, like a football referee, and chased him between the rows. Later, sitting in the dirt, I chuckled remembering how, after vaulting the fence, Thomas had given me a look of pure reproachas if to say, This isnt fair play!before disappearing into the hedgerow.
Mrs Green watched our antics from behind her own fence, well amused. Shed finally fulfilled her dream of being a dog owner; her daughter had brought over a tiny Toy Terrier named Lucky for the summer, and Mrs Green adored the distraction. As for my issue, I solved it by bringing in some wood shavings and dumping them in a weedy corner of my garden.
Thomas accepted this gift and started digging exclusively there. I breathed a sigh of relief, though soon enough I caught him watching me from the bushes, from rooftops, even through a gap in the fence. One evening, stepping into the garden after sundown, I nearly fainted when two glowing eyes met mine from the darkness. My shriek probably echoed through the whole village. With Thomas, you could never predict where hed materialise next.
I spent that summer living at Grans cottage, only returning to Oxford for my studies when term resumed, and coming out on weekends when I could.
One autumn visit, I stepped outside early one morning and saw a mound on the doorstep, sprinkled with snow. It was Thomas. The big tabby sat hunched, dusted with powdery frost, icicles hanging from his whiskers. He didnt stir as I brushed the snow off; he just tucked his head down, tail limp. I stroked him and saw his mouth move silentlyhe was trying to meow but couldnt even muster a breath.
I scooped him up and took him inside, wrapping him in a blanket and thawing his face with a warm towel. Thomas didnt resist; he was too weak. I settled him next to warm water bottles and went straight to Mrs Green.
She was unmoved: Hes out in the shed now. He stinks and he peed all over the kitchen. I wont let him back in! Turned out that after Lucky arrived, Thomas started to pick fights with the dog and spray her house. To keep the peace, shed turfed him out.
Thomas had survived the summer outdoors, but now the uninsulated shed in winter had finished him. I pleaded: he used to hunt, but now theres only snow and ice. She just shrugged: I gave him dry foodhe can eat and drink snow! He wont starve! If you dont want him, throw him out!
Back home, I realised Thomas must have come to my door for a reason. Desperate and ignored by his owner, he turned to the one hed fought with all summer.
I rang round everyone I knew to see if anyone wanted an old tomcat. No takers. Alice, my cousin, suggested their barnwarmer than outside, but not inside their house, since they already had two cats.
Meanwhile, Thomas revived a little, slunk out from his blanket, padded around my living room and sat square in front of me, meeting me right in the eye. It was as if he knew his fate was up for debate. I sighed and called Mum. She was always against pets in the flat, but remembering how kind Mr Green had been to Granand how often hed shared fresh fishshe softened. She even teared up, thinking of an old, unwanted cat left out to die.
In the end, the decision made itself.
I bought a plastic carrier from the local shop, gently settled Thomas inside, and took him with me back to Oxford. A new life was waiting for him.
