Throw him out on the street. Found the neighbours cat under the snow, and his owner refused to rescue him
I always approached the neighbours cat with a certain wariness. I never disliked cats, but this enormous, stripey rascal had thoroughly tested my patience once, and I hadnt quite forgiven him since.
This is really a story about what it means to still be decent, no matter what life throws at you.
That summer, the neighbours catTomstarted using my little vegetable patch as his own personal toilet. More than once, I caught him in the act: frantically pawing at the soil as though he was conducting some sort of archaeological dig. Id give chase, shouting, and hed dash off like nothing had happened. My cottage was small but sturdy; it had belonged to my gran and sat on the edge of a charming little suburb not far from Oxford.
If you wandered a bit further down my road, it really was proper countrysidefields and hedgerows. Yet if you walked up to the main road, the city was just a short bus ride away. When my gran was alive, I loved coming here; it felt like everything good about English weekends away. Even after she was gone, Id spend most weekends at the cottage: sometimes Id invite friends, wed heat the old chimenea, grill sausages, or go blackberry picking. In the woods nearby, you could fetch a handful of wild mushrooms in under an hour. Peace, fresh air, and plenty of space to breatheexactly what I needed to clear my head. My cousin, RachelUncle Johns daughteralso lived nearby. Wed been close since childhood. Between the garden and the river, we were never bored.
In my own patch, Id planted a few rows of radishes and salad leaves, and even a corner for spring onions. It might be small, but it was mine. Thats exactly the spot the neighbours cat continually targeted. In exasperation, I confronted his owner, Mrs Green. She just shrugged: What do you want me to do about it? I cant stand around keeping watch all day, can I? If hes bothering you so much, chuck a stick at him!
Her bluntness made sense. Tom had originally belonged to her late husband, Mr Green. Shed always said she had no time for catsdeclaring herself a dedicated dog loverbut was left with Tom after her husband passed away.
Tom really didnt want for much attention. He was an excellent mouserand, rumour had it, an accomplished fish-thief at the village pond too! Back in his heyday, hed trot behind Mr Green on fishing trips, only needing a bit of shelter and a warm hearth when the weather turned foul.
So my summer became something of a battleground between Tom and me. I tried speaking to him, pleading, even leaving out treats, but he totally ignored anything store-bought. He kept his distance, eyeing me with deep suspicion, never letting me get closer than a few feet.
Once, I doused him with the cold hose while he was rooting in the raised beds. Another time, I weeded with a whistle around my neck. The moment I spotted the invader, I charged after him, for all the world like a football referee, madly whistling as I sprinted down the rows. Afterwards, I collapsed laughing, remembering the way Tomhaving leapt the fence with easepaused to throw a scornful glance back as if to say, Thats hardly fair play! before disappearing into the hedge with his tail held high.
Mrs Green just watched these small dramas from behind her fence with an amused look. All the more so because her life-long wish had come true: her daughter had left a tiny toy terrier named Poppy with her for the summer, and Mrs Green could finally live out her dream of being a proper dog person. As for my veggie patch? I solved the problem myselfthree bags of sawdust dumped in a nettle-choked corner for Tom to dig in, and he seemed to accept the offer. Secretly, I was relieved. Still, I began to notice him watching mefrom behind the shrubs, from on top of the shed roof, even through the fence knots. Once, stepping out late at night, I nearly had a heart attack to find two glowing eyes fixed on me in the dark. My scream surely startled the whole village! With Tom, it was as though he appeared exactly where youd least expect him.
I spent most of autumn in Grans cottage and returned to university in London once term started, though Id still visit most weekends.
Then, one cold Saturday morning, I stepped out onto the back porch and saw a strange mound dusted with snow. It was Tom. The great cat sat there covered in a neat blanket of white, even his whiskers stuck through with tiny icicles. He didnt stir, didnt flick his tail, just hunched there with his head bowed. When I brushed off the snow, he still didnt react. Stroking his fur, I watched as he tried to meowopening his mouth silently, not even managing a wisp of breath.
I scooped him up and took him inside. I wrapped him in a blanket, warmed his cheeks, gently melted the icicles off his face with a warm towel. He didnt resist; he couldnt. Surrounded by hot water bottles, I hurried to Mrs Greens door.
She was unmoved. He lives in the shed now. He soaked my rug, filthy beast. Hes not coming back in. Not after what he did! She explained that after Poppy arrived, Tom started picking fights and marking the house, so shed banished him to the shed.
Hed gotten through summer, but the damp, uninsulated wooden shed offered no protection from the biting winter. I tried to reason with her: the poor cat had spent his life hunting, and now there was nothing but snow and ice. Mrs Green only replied, Theres dry cat food in the pan out therelet him eat that and drink snow! He wont starve. If it bothers you, throw him back outside!
Back at the cottage, I realised why Tom had appeared on my porch. Hed come looking for help. Dismissed by the only human hed trusted, he came to the one hed spent all summer fighting.
I started phoning around, hoping someone might want a sturdy old cat, but there were no takers. Rachel suggested the shed in their garden, which was warmer than outdoors, but they already had both a cat and a tom of their own.
Meanwhile, Tom had recovered a little. He climbed out of his blanket cocoon, wandered quietly around the living room, touched his nose to my ankle, and sat across from me, staring right into my eyesas if he knew I was deciding his fate. I sighed, and dialled my mum. Shes never been fond of animals in the flat, but memories of Mr Greens kindness and generosity softened her heart. She recalled how, whenever there was fresh fish shared among neighbours, Tom took his place at his masters side like a watchful dog. Mum even shed a tear for the old boy, cast aside and no longer wanted.
Thats when the answer just came to me.
I bought a plastic carrier at the local co-op, carefully bundled Tom inside, and took him back to London. For Tom, it was the start of a new life.
