The Cat’s Tail
The man stood on tiptoes, one hand both resting on the bench and holding a walking stick. I couldn’t see what he was reaching for.
Meow.
He didn’t hear me. He stretched as far as his elderly body could, finally pulling a blue mug from the very back of the cupboard.
“How did that get there?” he asked himself.
Meow.
His head turned towards the door where I sat, but he didn’t see me.
Only when he was sitting with hot tea, buttered toast and a newspaper did I catch his attention.
Meow.
“What the dickens are you doing here? Go away!”
I lifted my claws to scratch the screen.
“Don’t you rip that, you little flea ridden git!” He moved his hand to shoo me away, ineffective as I was still behind the screen door.
Undaunted, I sat and watched the man all morning as he went about his business. When I thought he would hear me, I meowed. He ignored me. As the day progressed, I scratched louder on the screen door, increasing both the frequency and the volume of my calls. As the golden sun dipped low in the sky, casting my long shadow onto the kitchen floor, he stood in front of me.
“You still here, you silly cat? Well, come in then. I can’t have you starved to death on me back porch.”
He opened the door, I slinked against his legs and waved my tail.
“Hmph,” the man replied.
I jumped onto the bench, sniffing around for supper. I knew this was where the food was kept, I’d seen him eating it all day. A delicate scent called me to the large plastic container where I’d seen him put rubbish. The lid was stuck open. A swift paw went in and fished out an empty tin that smelled deliciously of sardines.
My tongue tasted the salty delights from the edges of the tin, careful not to cut myself. I’d done that more than once before. When the man saw me, he snatched the tin, shooing me away.
“That’s not for you! I can spare some mince meat, but after that, you’re on your own.”
He placed a small amount of ground meat, something I didn’t recognise, onto a saucer. I ate eagerly.
When I finished, I licked the plate and watched him as he cooked some of the minced meat, added vegetables, and piled it on some toast for himself. Watching me watch him, he scraped some of the cooked meat from his own plate and sat it on my saucer. I sniffed, but it didn’t smell particularly appetising so I left it alone.
Meow.
“Didn’t like it, eh? Tough.”
After his supper, he settled onto a reclining chair in another room, with the television turned up loud, and fell asleep. I was comfortable on his lap.
The next morning, I awoke with the sun, finding a strand of drool on my fur. Stretch. My claws accidentally pricked his legs, which woke him. With a start, he shooed me off and, grumbling, stood up.
He opened and door. Clearly he was expecting me to go outside.
Meow.
“Well, I ain’t feedin’ ya no more.”
Meowwwww.
He picked up a curved thing on a small table by the doorway, twisted his curled fingers to press some numbers, and started talking.
“Has anyone called about a missing cat? … No, I can’t bring it in…”
He looked at me while I cleaned myself.
“She’s… well, I think she’s a she, white face, gingery coat… Is that what you call it? … No… Look, you told me that already and I told you that I can’t bring her in! … How do I know if she has a microchip? There’s no collar… Just tell me if anyone has called about a missing cat! How hard can that be?”
He slammed the handset into the cradle. I jumped from my spot on the bench and rubbed my back against his legs. Partly to comfort, partly to tell him I wasn’t going anywhere, and partly because I had an itchy spot near the base of my tail that I couldn’t quite reach with my paws.
Meow.
He picked me up, opened the back door and threw me outside, slamming the door behind me. I meowed loudly, scratched incessantly. He did not return.
Every morning, I returned to his back door, resuming my routine of scratching and meowing. I saw him inside going about his day, but he never even glanced at me.
Finally, on the eleventh morning of my routine, he opened the door with a sigh.
“You don’t give up.”
He scooped me into his arms, placing me on the bench where there was already a saucer of water for me to drink.
As I sniffed around a bit more, I noticed the man had left out some biscuits for me. Why was he suddenly so friendly? Had my incessant noise broken through his hardened exterior?
I felt warm after my meal. I was sleepy when he picked me up again and placed me on his lap. The past few days had certainly taken their toll on me, so I was happy to curl up and have a nap while the man watched television.
Later that afternoon, the man and I woke up and stretched.
“Your name will be Helen,” he said. “And you can call me Richard. Well… you canna speak… but my name is Richard.”
He spoke to me quite a bit now. He was trusting me. I allowed him his space whenever it seemed he needed it, and he was more than happy to leave me alone whenever I wanted to nap. I did so love sitting with him though. As our friendship grew, Richard began talking to me about everything.
And I’d never break that trust. I pooped where I was supposed to, I was careful not to knock anything over, and when I explored all the interesting nooks and crannies of the house, I was careful not to leave paw prints.
“That’s me wife,” he said one day, pointing to a framed picture. “She died last year. Her name’s Christina. You heard me, Chris-tie-na. Scottish. She could be quite brusque.” He chuckled to himself. I meowed in reply.
“Yes, well, you would say that.”
When he left the house, to have lunch with his daughter, say, he would give me a big hug and tell me he was going to miss me.
I didn’t like this alone time. There was nothing to do except nap and explore. Once I had sniffed everywhere and found all the sunniest spots to sunbathe in, I was bored.
When Richard was home, I listened while he talked about Christina. There was a particular show on the television which made Richard sad. He told me it was Christina’s favourite programme. The show featured people dancing; I liked the music. It was different to the music Richard normally listened to, which had no words. Sometimes, Richard cried when the show came on. I would snuggle closer, his gentle hands with curled fingers would stroke me softly until I purred. We were both comforted.
Richard and I lived together for several months. I knew I was a great friend to him. One morning when I woke, I nudged him and he didn’t move.
I won’t deny I was sad. I’d come to quite like Richard. But it was time to move on. It wasn’t long before I found myself scratching at another door, meowing loudly, waiting for the old lady inside to let me in.
