A cat

The room is cosily lit by dim lamps and candle light. I stare at her. She stares back. Wide eyed and terrified. She doesn’t remember me, understandably. We’d only met a couple of times, and those memories were bound to have been lost in the huge upheaval her life had just taken. Mum barks unnecessary commands like “Don’t get to close! She’s frightened, let her calm down!” But she too is captivated by the new entity, cowering away in her carrier in the middle of the lounge.

Dad just looks happier then he had in days.



I carefully place a small orange biscuit on the carpet in front on her. The residue lingers on my fingers. She pokes her head out a fraction towards the treat, sniffs it carefully, then it’s gone, and she retreats again.



“She’ll settle,” Mum tells me knowingly. “This is all completely new to her, she’s not going to know what’s going on. She’s confused now and its natural she wants to stay in safety. She’ll come round eventually as she gets used to us, don’t worry.”

All I can think to reply with is “We have a cat…”



We stick with the name my gran gave her. Fudge. I don’t know why, she doesn’t respond to it, but it would feel wrong to change it.



The changes to the house are small, but obvious. There was never a scratch post in the lounge, or a litter tray in the kitchen before.

*



“Where’s the cat?” Becomes the most commonly uttered phrase in the house, replacing “When’s dinner?” from the top spot. The neighbours all love her. Even my cat phobic girlfriend warms to her.



Dad plays with her in the evening, teasing her with a small mouse on a string. Mum keeps picking her up to cuddle her whenever she decides she’s upset. They remind me of when I was much younger.



Mum refuses to let her sleep on my parents’ bed, so she makes do on mine. I wake up to find her myself squashed up against the wall, with her stretched out over the width of two thirds of the bed.



She’s braver now, and the house is a new playpen for her to explore. She scratches at the bottom of doors until someone opens them for her. She finds all the nooks and crannies even we didn’t know about. She’s captivated by the outside world. She sits on any window ledge and stares for hours. But she’s not allowed out. We’d been advised not to let her out for the first two weeks.



For my birthday my Mum gets me socks with cats faces on. They make me laugh. I show them to fudge but she doesn’t care. She’s too busy staring at the other cat in the fire place.



John comes home for the funeral, but spends the whole time following her round the house like, in my mums words, “A besotted teenage.” Mum jokes that John will leave Ellie for Fudge. Ellie just laughs.



After two weeks Fudge has become more affectionate. She sits on dads lap in the lounge, and has even tried to sit on mine. I let her, but she fell off.



Mum finally lets her out into the back garden, but stands and watches her through the patio door, with the sun shining through as it starts to set. “Where is she?” She asks whenever she goes out of sight.

“She’s a cat.” I remind her, “You don’t need to worry about her.” I don’t quite believe it myself. We both watch her until she returns, a long ten minutes later.



I’d always wanted a cat.

*



We return home late from watching the World Cup in Leicester. She’d been left by herself in the house all day. She death-stares us as we troop into the house. Dad returns to the car to get his coat, leaving the front door open.

Mum shrieks “Greg, the door!” I rush into the hallway for one last glance of her diving into the night.



We wait ten minutes, telling each other she’ll be back. But after half an hour, dad goes out to look for her, while I sit on the steps, staring at the open front door, waiting for her to run back in.



She doesn’t.



Dad returns empty handed. Mum leaves the shed door open with some food and water before they go to bed. I stay up longer by the door, waiting.



The food is untouched the next morning. We ask the neighbours to look out for her. They tell us not to worry, that she’s a cat, and that cats spend hours out by themselves a lot.



A day becomes two days,

Then three,

Then four or five,

And then it’s a week.



Mum puts the litter tray and the scratching post in the garage. She says they were making her sad, but they’d still be there if she comes back. It’s the first time she’s used the word if.

Somehow the house looks empty. They were small things, but obvious things.



Life quickly returns to normal. I have the bed to myself. We talk about dinner again. Jack loves Ellie again.

Dad is sad again.



We begin to forget. We sometimes talk about where she might be, or how she’s doing. Aunty Jane said that when Gran originally found her she had been living wild for months, so we know not to worry about her. But generally we try to move on.



I occasionally find the cat socks in my drawer. Its odd how drastically different the same item can make you feel at different times.



By the time it becomes three weeks, we’ve given up. She’s been gone longer then we had her. Everyone has stopped saying “She’ll still turn up yet”. Some people think she’s trying to return back to Cannock, where Gran used to live. Some believe she’s living wild in the park.



Even if she found her way back, it’s not likely she’d recognise the house, or any of us. Wherever she is I know we won’t see her again. I’ve come to terms with that.



I’d always wanted a cat,

and I’d had one.

*



My friends and I visit Dudley zoo. It’s the first sunny day in a few weeks. We joke about replacing Fudge with a snow leopard.



Whilst in the gift shop my phone goes off. It’s my mum. She’s in tears.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.



She swallows down her tears and says

“Guess whose sitting in our kitchen!”