5December
Tonight I think this may be my last night out, and I want it to end beautifully. I will watch the girl I love from her window, wish her a long life, then curl up beside the glass and drift into my dreams, never to return.
I have survived three consecutive wintersno exaggeration. For a street cat, such endurance is almost a miracle; few of us make it that long.
I was born in a modest terraced house on the edge of Camden, next to my mother, a gentle tabby who trusted humans. Life changed in an instant.
My owners, Mr. Arthur Clarke and his wife Margaret, were killed in a car crash. Their adult son, Victor, loathed cats and, with his fierce bulldog, decided the extra occupants had to go. Without a second thought he shooed the whole feline family onto the street.
The first winter claimed everyonemother, brothers, sisters. Hunger took some, the cold froze others, dogs attacked a few, and some were run over. Only one survived: a ginger kitten.
A local groundskeeper, Mr. Jenkins, found the little orange bundle, snatched it from the mothers side, and carried it down to the cellar, tucking it near the hot water pipes. He fed it through the long, bitter cold. That night I learned to stay away from dogs, hide from people, scavenge bins, and cheat hunger.
The second winter arrived alone. Mr. Jenkins lost his job after a night of drinking; his replacement was a stern fellow who stopped feeding the cats, though he at least didnt break the cellar window. I survived another year, learning to fight for food and for life.
The third winter was the harshest. All the cellar windows had been sealed with glass. Where could I go? Where could I hide from the icy nights?
I was forced to seek a new refuge. All the cellars were shut, but in one back garden I discovered an old, forgotten trench where a hot water main ran just beneath the earth. Thick hedges concealed it, and no one seemed to know it existed. I piled old rags and torn clothes into the trench, making a crude nest. Above me, the balcony overhang kept the snow from piling too deep, though the warm pipe melted snow into a damp, chilling mist that seeped to my bones.
I emerged from that winter a gaunt shadow of a catbones showing, fur a ragged sack, eyes forever watchful. In streetcat terms I was already an old man, surviving now on meagre scraps.
Then the trench was discovered. Just before the first autumn showers, someone finally saw the unsightly hole and decided to fill it in.
I returned, as I always did, to the pipe for the night and saw fresh earth over the trench. I settled on a small mound and stared. It felt like a death sentence: no more hidden spots, the few that remained were already claimed by other cats.
I curled up in a wet heap of fallen leaves, shivering, yet I held on. It was in this fragile state, teetering on the edge, that I fell in love.
Yes, I fell in love. No hope, just an aching admiration. She was a breathtakingly beautiful female cat named Blythe, who lived in a tidy flat on the ground floor of a Victorian townhouse. She loved perching on the windowsill, watching the world outside. I could only sit below, looking up at her, feeling a strange warmth creep into my cold heart.
One night I gathered courage: I scrambled up a garden fence, leapt onto a wide metal awning that once stored bread in winter, now abandoned. From there I could see Blythe behind the glass. I visited that spot often, sitting and sighing, never asking for anything, simply admiring her. Occasionally she would hop down to her food bowls, and I would swallow my own salivanot from envy, but from the hollow animal yearning inside me.
I decided that if fate were to claim me this winter, I would die at her window. I would curl into a ball, watch her, and go out not in fear but in the gentle warmth of my love.
I even imagined the scene: a thin orange cat, quietly passing away on his beloved sill.
One evening Blythe spotted me and let out a startled yowl, flailing her paws. I fled, then returned, and returned again. The flats occupant, Mr. Henry Miller, saw me and didnt chase me away. He looked into my eyes and saw everythinghope, pain, weariness, and devotion to Blythe. He couldnt send me off.
Instead, he began slipping pieces of meat, a mince pie, a sausage behind the window. I ate. One night Henry approached the glass, and I, trembling, lifted my paw to the pane and mewed.
Blythe first glanced at the man, then at me. Surprise flickered in her gaze.
You know, Henry whispered, she doesnt want another cat. I asked for a kitten, she refused. He lowered his hands. I understood. I wasnt meant for a home; homes were for pedigreed, clean, young, pampered cats.
That night the air was bitterly cold. I was drenched, shivering, and realised there was no point leftno leaves to rustle, no hidden corners to chase, no endless struggle for survival.
If the end was inevitable, let it be here, by the window Id watched for so long.
So I resolved: let this night be my final one. I would look once more at the creature my heart had chased, whisper a warm, quiet meow, wish her happiness and many years, then vanish. First I would finish the last morsel Henry had left, then, when she retired to her cosy nest, I would curl into a tiny ball at the cold glass and step into a sleep from which I would never awaken.
Snow began to fall unexpectedly, and Blythe watched, delighted, as white flakes swirled outside the pane and settled on my orange back. Her eyes danced with the snows ballet, unaware that the beauty was slowly killing the one who gazed through the icy glass. She knew nothing of frost biting deep, nothing of freezing from within.
Meanwhile I was stiffening. The sausage Id eaten an hour earlier gave a faint ember of warmth, but it faded as my strength waned. The wind bit, the frost gnawed my bones, and even sitting upright became a strain. I still stared at her, but I knew I could not hold out much longer.
I prepared for this farewell as if it were the most momentous event of my life. I wanted to go out gracefully: one last look at my love, a soft meow, a mental wish for her long, warm life, then slip into dreams beyond cold and hunger.
The snowfall intensified, and Blythe, perched on her warm sill, watched the slow dance of the flakes. She loved how they landed on my reddened back, a strange, beautiful sight. She could not see that the pattern was a slow death. She didnt understand that snow was frost, wind was pain, hunger was torture. She had never known a street.
I, on the outside, grew rigid. The last heat from the sausage ebbed away. Each breath grew heavier, my paws went numb, my tail hardened with ice. I still gazed at her, but my body was giving up.
Suddenly a strange calm washed over me; the cold no longer felt sharp. A sleepy, soft blanket of drowsiness covered me like a coat. I decided not to fight any longer. The end was near.
I opened my eyes one final time and saw herthe very cat that had driven me up that metal awning, the reason I had survived these days. How beautiful, I thought, what could be sweeter than this gentle ending?
My head dropped, my eyes closed. In my mind a hand seemed to lift me, stroking, whispering kindness. Beside me stood Blythe, and together we walked toward a warm bowl of food.
A fleeting dream of perfection.
Blythe continued to watch the snow blanket me, meowing softly, then louder, then tapping the glass with her paw, as if pleading, Why dont you answer? The cold had already sealed my body; I could not hear. I slipped into silence, becoming part of the white drifts that covered me like a shroud.
Mrs. Harper, the neighbour, shouted at the snow, Whats that cat doing out there?
Mr. Miller, hearing the commotion, rose from his sofa, looked at the window, and saw Blythe frantic against the glass. Something clicked. He remembered her eyes and my orange coat. He rushed to the garden, pulled aside the shutters, and found a small, frozen mound of fur.
He scooped the icy bundle into the bathroom, wrapped me in a towel, and ran hot water over my back. Blythe sat on the edge, watching, her whiskers trembling. Henry whispered, Im doing what I can, as he massaged my chest, trying to coax life back.
A distant voice seemed to call me home, but then Blythes gentle purr reached my ears, pulling me toward the warmth of her presence.
When the water finally stopped, Henry lifted me, cradling my shivering body. Blythe leapt onto the floor, circling, meowing joyously. Henry wrapped a soft blanket around me, dried me with a hairdryer, and said, Hell live.
What shall we call him? asked his wife, Sarah, after a pause.
Hes called Loved One, Henry smiled. Thats his name.
Blythe gave a soft meow of approval.
Now Loved One lives in that flat on Camden High Street. His coat shines, his tail is fluffy and proud, his eyes are calm and grateful. He and Blythe sit together on the windowsill, watching the world outside. Occasionally he sighs, remembering the cold side of the glass. Blythe brushes against his shoulder, whispering, Youre home now. Youre ours.
Below, the other stray cats still wander the streets, hoping to survive another winter. They keep hoping.
