A Winter’s Tail

By Rachel Wells

What is that, Dad?” George asked as we stared out of the window. “It’s snow,” I replied. We both paused to watch the fluffy flakes float past the window.

“Do cats like snow?” George looked at me, flicking his tail in excitement.

“It can be fun,” I began. My experience of snow was limited but I didn’t say that. “But it’s also cold and a little wet. Come on, son, let’s see for ourselves.” I jumped off the windowsill and with my kitten following, made my way to the back door.

My name is Alfie. I’m a doorstep cat, which means I visit several homes and have lots of humans who share in taking care of me. In reality, of course, I always end up taking care of them.

George is my kitten. He’s not my biological kitten, but adopted, and I love him more than I ever thought possible. This was his first winter and I loved seeing new things through his eyes. It made me appreciate life all the more. That’s the point of kittens – and children too, I think.

We glided through the cat flap and into the garden where a thin blanket of snow lay. We stared at it before tentatively venturing out, paws sinking into the cold dampness, leaving a beautiful pattern of prints. Snowflakes fell on our heads, melting to feel a little like rain. George was staring around in wonder and I decided that although I’m not keen on water, I didn’t mind this snow. It was quite exhilarating.

As I watched George running around, chasing his paw prints, sinking slightly into the soft snow, I delighted in it. It was fun, but very cold. I laughed, whiskers raised, as George in his excitement bumped into a small tree. Snow fell from its branches and landed on him.

“Ahh,” he shouted, but gleefully, as he tried to shake the snow off his fur. It was the sweetest thing ever.

Iwoke later in the week from a cosy cat nap and saw Claire, one of our owners, standing in front of me. “Alfie, where is George?” she asked. “Miaow,” I replied. I didn’t know. At first when George came I didn’t let him out of my sight, but I’d learned that now he was older I had to afford him a bit more freedom. Although I told him never to venture far.

I looked at Claire, blinking to show I loved her, got up, stretched and went to find George. Parental responsibility was not for the faint-hearted.

The snow was still on the ground as I made my way out. I ventured down the street. Edgar Road, where we live, is a long road and when I bumped into some of the neighbourhood cats on the way, I asked if they’d seen George. It seemed my kitten had been a bit elusive.

Finally I struck gold with one of the cats who said that he had gone to the very end of the street, so I headed off.

I found George in front of a very shabby-looking house. The paint was peeling and even the snow seemed to have struggled to settle in the jungle-like garden. George looked a bit sad as he sat staring at the downstairs window.

“George, there you are. I was worried. What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I’m visiting my friend,” he replied. “What friend?” My interest was piqued. Being a doorstep cat, I was always open to making new friends. It seemed George was a chip off the old block.

“He lives there. He’s got grey hair and a big bushy beard.” He flicked his tail toward the front of the house.

An old man appeared at the window. Indeed he had grey hair and a beard, but he didn’t look very friendly as he waved his arms around and gestured angrily, though I had no idea what he was saying.

I saw him struggle with the window. Eventually he managed to open it a little. “Get away,” he shouted. I looked at George. This man didn’t sound exactly welcoming. “Miaow,” I said in my warmest voice. “Begone with you! No cats allowed here,” the man shouted again, becoming breathless as he did so.

George, not seeming to understand, hopped onto the window sill just out of reach of the open window, which incensed the man further. He banged his fist against the window pane, causing my boy to jump and fall off. He clung to the sill with his claws before climbing back up. I went to join him as the man closed the window, scowling at us.

“George,” I whispered. “I don’t think this man is your friend.”

“He is. I’ve visited him every day this week, and he never goes out. He’s definitely my friend.”

George sounded certain.

Ididn’t have the heart to argue. My kitten was so cute everyone loved him and so he’d never experienced anyone not being charmed by him.

As I moved closer to the window, and found myself looking at the angry man, I decided I needed to stop him coming here. It might not end well.

Suddenly the man slumped into an armchair. He was still muttering but he seemed to be struggling. I peered into his living room, which was messy, and saw that he had holes in his jumper.

I knew he was angry – it was etched on his lined face – but he also looked sad, and I suddenly realised something.

“You say you visit this man every day?” I asked.

“This week, I have.” George licked a bit of snow that had stuck to his paw. “And he never goes out?” “Nope. Although he sometimes opens the front door to greet me. He closes it before I can get into the house though, but I think that’s our little game.”

He grinned. I raised my whiskers. My kitten still had a lot to learn about people

– although I felt suddenly alarmed. Something was wrong. “Does anyone else visit him?” I asked. “Not that I’ve seen. Do you think he needs help?” George asked, wide-eyed.

My job as a doorstep cat was to help people, and I had been teaching George this. I was beginning to get a feeling about this man. I felt it in my fur.

“Shall I get Claire?” I thought aloud. “Or at least one of my humans…”

I had a plan forming in my mind. Plans were something I was quite good at, if I do say so myself. I would get Claire, she’d think George was in trouble – which he was, a bit – then I would lead her here so she could check on the old man.

I explained to George, and told him to wait in the front garden – safely away from the window – and I bounded off.

Sometimes trying to get the attention of humans isn’t easy. They’re not always the quickest on the uptake. Not like us cats.

I found Claire, along with Polly, her friend and another of my humans, in the kitchen. I yowled with all my might, then ran to the front door.

I had to do this a number of times. My voice was hoarse, but eventually they got the message and followed me.

I ran as fast as my legs would take me down the street to the old man’s house. George was waiting patiently on the step. My heart swelled; he was adorable, how could anyone not be charmed by him? “What is George doing?” Claire asked. “Goodness knows,” Polly replied. “George, come here.”

George sat firm. I saw them surveying the garden and the house, before they decided they had no choice but approach. We reached the doorstep and just as Claire was about to scoop George up the door opened, and the angry man, face red as a tomato, was staring at them.

“Hello,” Claire said tentatively. “Sorry to disturb you, I was just looking for my kitten.”

“Well, maybe you could get it to stay away from my house in future,” the man shouted. “That pesky cat keeps coming here where it’s no business and I really don’t –” His breathing became a bit shallow and he leant against the wall for support.

“Are you alright?” Polly walked into the house and took his arm. He tried to shrug her off but he didn’t have the strength.

“Come on, we’ll get you sat down.”

I thought he would shout again but he meekly let Polly lead him into the front room, which on closer inspection needed a good clean. She sat him in a chair. George and I followed of course, as Polly and Claire looked around them, slightly horrified.

“I’m Claire, and this is Polly. We live on Edgar Road too,” she explained, kindly. All my humans were very kind. I had taught them well.

“I’m Len. I’ve not been too good lately, not really on top of things.” He suddenly looked very sad. “Is there anyone to help you?” Polly asked. “Shall I make you a cup of tea?”

“I can make my own tea,” he said angrily. I flinched. Then he softened. “Sorry – I’ve got no tea. Or milk. Or anything. And no,” his eyes darkened, “there’s no one to help me. I normally manage fine on my own but with the snow… I don’t like to risk going out and I’ve run out of my pills.”

I felt a pang of sadness for him. He was alone, unhappy and helpless, which must be a very bad feeling for anyone.

“Lucky that George found you then,” Claire said breezily, as if it was the most natural thing ever for our kitten. Len looked contrite. I didn’t approve of anger or people being rude but I understood it, as I saw his fear. I thought about my families, how much we were always there for each other. How no one felt lonely, and there was always someone to help out. We were the lucky ones and Len – well, Len wasn’t so lucky, I guessed.

Although he was now. My humans mobilised. Claire made a list of Len’s favourite food and took details of the chemist, ready to go to the shops for him and insisted she would get Jonathan, her husband, to deliver him a hot meal that night. Polly, who was very practical, said she’d sort the house, and unearthed cleaning products and the Hoover.

I knew George had done a very good thing, because now Len had us to take care of him, to help him out, which is what good neighbours, even if we didn’t live next door, should do.

I knew he shouldn’t have shouted at my kitten, or me for that matter, but when people are scared they don’t always act the way they should. I had learned that over the years. Compassion was necessary here, and I was a very compassionate cat.

As Claire left and Polly started cleaning, he didn’t argue, shout or say “no cats”. When George hopped onto his lap Len stroked him, tears glinting in his eyes, as my kitten snuggled into the angry old man and purred.

George was right all along; Len was his friend and we were his.

“LUCKY that George FOUND you then,” answered Claire BREEZILY