When someone asks me to look after the cat, because maybe its getting senile, I first glance not at the feline but at the people nearby. If an animal shows odd behaviour, its almost always a reflection of someone else.
This time a neighbour summons me. Mrs. Margaret Clarke lives on the second floor of a postwar council flat in East London, where the winter walls groan and let in drafts. She says:
Theres an old lady with a cat. People used to visit her, but now only the postman comes. She says everything is fine, but could you have a look The cat sits by the front door at five oclock every day and doesnt move. He just sits. For hours. And she pretends its normal.
I head over.
The door opens to a petite grandmother with a neat bob and a woolen cardigan knitted with longlooped buttons. Behind her is a cupboard full of china, a trellis of tiny perfume bottles, and an old BBC Radio that has been playing the same station for ten years. The air smells of porridge, mint and something faintly familiar.
Good afternoon You must be the vet, yes? Come in, but keep your shoes onit’s chilly.
Im a vet, indeed. Wheres the cat?
Hes shy. Hes gone under the armchair. He doesnt like guests, but hell let his own people sit on him. He only comes out at night, and at five.
I note the five but dont ask whether its a.m. or p.m. The cat is indeed under the armchair: a plump, orange tabby, at least ten years old, with a dry nose, antennalike whiskers and eyes that seem to ask, Who are you and why have you intruded on my den?
I perch on a cushioned ottomanstuffed with cotton from the days when people sewed their own furniturewhile the grandmother talks.
He follows a schedule. In the morning we have porridge, then I watch the telly, and he perches on the windowsill. At five he settles at the door. Always.
Why at five?
The children used to call at five. They dont any more, but he still waits.
You say hes fine How are you yourself?
Me? I have enough. The TV works, theres porridge. What more could I need?
The cat emerges from under the chair, not toward me but toward the door. He checks the handle for a squeak, then lies on the rug and rests his headnot on the floor but on a warm fold of the woolen coat that no one ever puts away.
Hes waiting, the grandmother says. Maybe he thinks theyll come. I dont stop him. Let him hope.
I dont lecture her about how cats dont really wait but simply love routine, nor do I suggest more toys or enrichment, because this is not just a cat and not just old age. It feels like a private pact between the two of them: We sit here so no one notices how time slips by.
As I leave, she says:
If youre passing by, pop in. I can bake a cake. Or just bring a treat. The cat will love it.
I nod, then catch myself wondering if I could use a treat too.
A week or two later Im driving through the same block, transporting a cat on an IV drip after surgery. I realise I think of the grandmother more often than many of my other patients. Every vet has those cases you want to return tonot because theyre challenging, but because theyre quiet, like a library: not frightening, but comforting.
When I buzz the intercom, she isnt surprised. She simply says:
The cake isnt ready, but tea is on the table.
I step inside and the cat is already at the door, on the same rug fold, as if the pause were just a breath.
Hes become both my alarm clock and calendar, she jokes. If he doesnt purr in the morning, I know its Monday. On Mondays I feel rather poorly.
She isnt joking. She speaks plainly.
I understand that the grandmother and her cat are lucky. Their relationship is honest. He doesnt promise that everything will be fine; he simply stays. She doesnt pretend everythings perfect; she just puts out a saucer of milk each morning.
You know, she says suddenly, I once had a cuckoo clock. My husband fixed it for our first winter together. Then I took off the hands because it hurt to watch time pass when there was no one to share it with.
Now the clock hangs without hands, but every day at five the cat is at the door.
I watch that lazy, rotund orange Buddha on the rug and think: we humans invent whole systemsreminders, calendars, timersto keep track of what matters. Animals just sit and wait, and thats enough.
I ask whether the children ever call.
Rarely. Theyre good people, just busy with their lives. I have porridge, a cat, and you, doctor.
Im not a doctor. I just like listening.
Then youre better than any doctor.
Before I leave I sit beside the cat. He doesnt stir, only his tail twitches like an antenna. I touch the coat; its cold but still smells of life, not sadness but expectation.
What if they do come? the grandmother asks suddenly.
What if, I reply.
The cat will be the first to notice. Hes my radar. Yesterday, he was at the door from dawn, and I poured tea thinking it was a surprise, only to find it was the neighbour.
We laugh, a laugh of people who havent truly laughed in ages.
When I step out, snow begins to fallsoft, whispering flakes that crunch gently underfoot. In that crunch I hear a voice:
Soon.
I drive back later, emptyhanded, not even with a urine sample box. Sometimes patients call not because theyre ill but because theyre lonely, and as a vet you dont cure anything, you just check that the eyes are still there.
That day the grandmother opens the door faster than usual.
I knew it. Hes been sitting at the door since sunrise, she says.
The cat passes me like a piece of furniture, settles by the cupboard, and doesnt meow.
He used to sleep at my husbands feet, right there on my knees bend. When he died she pauses. He still curls there. At first I tried to move him, then I realized hes keeping a place for him.
We sit for tea.
I found an old album. Pictures of us with the kids at the cottage. Want a look?
I say yes, not because I love photo albums, but because when someone pulls out memories they seem clearer, more transparent.
One picture shows my husband in a deck chair, a cat at his feetsame orange tabby, younger, slimmer.
The caption reads, Summer, dad, Whiskers and raspberries.
Beside it is a girl with curly pigtails.
Thats Ellen, the youngest. She loved the cat most of all. She now has her own children and cats Though, the grandmother adds, I think shed recognize him in an instant.
A few days later I get a call.
Is this Dr. Patel? I found your number on my mothers fridge. This is Ellen, her daughter.
Yes, speaking.
I wanted to ask that cat is he still Whiskers? Is he still there?
Hes still there, I answer.
Silence stretches.
I just found a photo and realized hes the only one who never left. Not even to the cottage.
Yes. He still sits at the door at five.
At five?
At five.
That weekend the grandmother doesnt open the door right away. I start to feel uneasy when I hear the lock click.
Sorry, my hands were shaking. I was crying yesterday.
The cat sits in the corner wearing a new red collar with a bow.
Ellen brought it, she came with her son.
A pause.
Her son is just like the catquiet, only listening, then saying, Ill remember you forever.
The grandmother cries again, but this time the tears feel softer.
I leave later than usual. As I turn, the cat sits in the window, watching me go, as if he knows some of us are meant to return again and again until everything finally quiets down or warms up completely.
