The Cat Who Came Back for Christmas

by Julia Romp

  The cat looked thin and sickly as I stared at it, standing on the roof of the shed in the garden George and I had now that we’d moved. The year before the council had given us a lovely two-bedroom house close to Mum and Lewis, and it came with 16 feet of outside space that was more of a mud pit than a garden. But after putting down turf with a stepping stone path running through it, I planted roses, honeysuckle and clematis and tracked down a secondhand shed on the Internet that I stained pale green and painted with flowers on the inside; then I bought a mini summerhouse in the same green. Every time I looked out and saw my lovely garden, I couldn’t believe how lucky we were.

  The first time I saw the cat in the distance, one morning in the summer of 2006, I could see immediately that it wasn’t well. The cat was black and white, but it was so filthy that its white fur was stained brown and it disappeared almost as soon as I got a glimpse of it. I felt so sorry for it that I left out some milk and bread that night and the bowl was empty by the next morning. Over the next few days, I saw the cat again, but only ever for a few seconds because it would dart off the moment I opened the door to the garden. After a few days I managed to edge slowly across the lawn and get near enough to have a better look. I’d seen lots of feral cats before that lived in the wild and survived on whatever they could find, but this one seemed different. It looked really sick. It needed help.

  As I got closer, the cat lifted its head. There was a bald patch running in a ring around its neck that was crusted with blood. It looked as though someone had almost tried to hang the cat, and its bottom was just as red raw. It also had a huge belly for such a scrawny thing and I realized with shock that it must be pregnant. In fact, it didn’t look as if the cat had long to go until she had her babies. How was she ever going to be strong enough to have them?

  I took a step closer to try to get a better look, and the cat panicked. Hissing and clawing at me, she jumped up on the fence and on to the shed roof, and streaked off. I wondered if I’d ever see her again now that I’d scared her, but cats are nothing if not greedy, aren’t they? The stray returned for her bread and milk again that night and the next, and was soon visiting the garden during the day as well.

  She seemed to like being there, but as I watched her come and go I felt more and more worried. I’d gone knocking on a few doors, hoping someone might have lost a cat, because it’s not unusual for them to go off and not be able to find their way home; I’d also phoned the local animal charity to see if anyone had reported a black and white cat missing. She was very distinctive, after all. She had a patch of white fur shaped like a butterfly under her nose and a bib of white on her chest. Her eyes were also a striking green—pale but bright—the likes of which I’d never seen before. But no one was looking for a pregnant black and white cat. I knew I had to get her to the vet as soon as possible because her babies were going to arrive soon.

  Now the reason I did all this was because I had become a bit of an accidental pet rescuer. It started when George and I were still living on the estate and Michelle had taken in a Labrador, which hadn’t done well enough at training classes for its owner’s liking. Michelle didn’t have the space to swing a cat in her flat, let alone a bouncing puppy, but the dog was beautiful, all chocolate-brown fur and big eyes, so I could understand why she wanted to help. The only problem was that we weren’t allowed animals, and there was no way Michelle was going to hide a half-grown Labrador when she started walking it on the estate and the gossips got moaning. “She got a dog in there?” I’d hear them say. “We’re not having that! We’ve been in these flats sixty years, love, and there’s no pets allowed. The council won’t have it.”

  I told Michelle that the dog had to go or else she’d be reported. But instead of doing something sensible like giving it to a charity, we smuggled it up a whole floor to my flat, where pets were just as forbidden as they were in Michelle’s. We didn’t want to let the dog go until we were sure it had a good home, so we got it into my flat, where I tried to keep it as quiet as I could. Trouble was the puppy went berserk every time the doorbell went.

  “Have you got a dog in there?” I’d hear someone say as I opened the door a crack.

  “No, just the telly,” I’d reply as the Hound of the Baskervilles howled two inches from me.

  In the end, I had to say the dog was on holiday with me, although who’d want to holiday in Hounslow? It’s not exactly Barbados, even for a Labrador. Fortunately after a few weeks, I found it a home with a man I knew in Kent and off it went to a lovely life by the sea.

  So that’s how my career as a pet rescuer had started and it carried on after we moved, thanks to George. He’d always liked animals and when Mum’s dog Polly had died, he’d made a cross for her grave in the garden and told his nan that she could never move because that would mean leaving Polly behind. I’d explained to George that we weren’t allowed pets in a council flat and taken him to city farms to see animals instead. He knew the pet ban would be lifted, though, when we moved into a house with a garden, and as soon as we did he started asking for everything from fish to birds to dogs. I got him a budgie—a bright yellow one that we called Polly—but she lasted only a few weeks because her singing was too much for George and she had to move in with Mum and Lewis. Then he decided he wanted a rabbit, but because Polly hadn’t worked out that well I wasn’t sure. So instead I took him to the local pet superstore to look at the rabbits, hoping that would be enough for him. Trouble was, we went in one day and I saw this big, beautiful, flop-eared bunny, George said he wanted it and I gave in. We called her Fluffy and she was soon installed in the flower-painted shed. But once again, George didn’t stay interested for long and I told myself that he obviously wasn’t going to bond with a pet, however much I wanted him to.

  The neighbors knew we had a rabbit, though, because everyone knows everything on a housing estate—which is why a woman from round the corner knocked on my door after finding one hopping by the side of the road. She didn’t know what to do with it, so I took it in and my unofficial animal foster home was open for business.

  After that, things just snowballed. After taking in the rabbit and finding it a new owner by asking around, I had a stream of animal orphans in and out the house: the wild rabbit that a child had found in a local park, a white albino that went to a good home, and several guinea pigs that people had bought for their kids and ended up not wanting. I couldn’t say no to any of them. It wasn’t the animals’ fault they were homeless, and I liked seeing the rabbits hopping around on the lawn, or shuffling, in the case of the guinea pigs—having a bit of fun at last.

  But even though I’d loved animals ever since I was a child, I was determined not to be the official owner of anything other than a rabbit—and cats were top of the “not wanted” list. Mum had put me off them after she’d taken in so many stray cats when I was a child that I’d ended up being called “Hairy” at school because my uniform was always covered. I’d sworn to myself that I’d never have a houseful of animals. So when the rabbits and guinea pigs started arriving, I was happy to help but careful not to get too attached. I didn’t give them names, because they were going to go on to proper, permanent homes. They were only ever called “guinea” or “rabbit.” It was strictly business, or rather charity.

  Then the stray arrived and everything changed when she started visiting our garden more and more. There was just something about her: the way she looked at me with her huge green eyes. She gazed at me like a wise old woman, so peacefully and reassuringly that even though she was determined not to let me touch her, I found myself looking forward to seeing how she was each day, wondering where she’d been and what she’d gotten up to, what kind of life she’d had that had brought her to my garden. I had to help her, and so I knew I had to catch her and get her to the vet. Soon I started leaving her food just inside the shed door next to a cat carrier, where I’d made up a nice comfy bed. Once she started sleeping in it, I’d close the door and take the cat to the vet.

  She wasn’t
stupid, though. The cat soon started leaving hairs behind on the bed blankets, but she was never anywhere near the carrier when I went to see her and I’d go back in the house huffing and puffing with frustration.

  “What’s in the shed?” George asked me one day as I walked inside.

  “Just a stray cat,” I told him.

  “Can I see it?”

  “I’m not sure, George. She doesn’t really like people. She’s very scared, so I think it might frighten her if both of us go out there.”

  “Why’s she here?”

  “Because she’s having kittens and I’m trying to help her.”

  That was it. George heard the word “kittens” and the next day when I went to see the cat there was nothing I could do to stop him from following me outside, because just like lots of other 10-year-olds, he was fascinated by the idea of baby animals.

  “Stay well back,” I told him. “She might claw at you if you get too close and I don’t want you getting scratched.”

  George stood behind me as I opened the door and peered into the darkness. As I stared around, I couldn’t see a thing in the gloom.

  “There she is,” George said, pointing.

  I followed his finger and saw two green eyes shining out above our heads. The cat was sitting on a shelf looking down at us. And instead of running at it, George did just as I had told him and stood quietly beside me.

  “She’s going to have her babies soon, isn’t she?” he said.

  “Any day, I think.”

  After that he came out with me every day. But while George was always quiet around the cat, because he understood that I wanted to catch her, she was as determined as ever not to be helped. Each day we’d find her anywhere but in the carrier and she continued to hiss and claw if we ever took a step too close.

  “What’s wrong with her?” George would ask.

  “I think she’s scared.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she’s not used to people.”

  “Doesn’t she know that we want to help her?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  I liked it that George wanted to help the cat as he looked at it sitting quietly in the darkness. As he’d always shown when he was with Lewis, George was drawn to anyone—or anything—that he thought needed his help. For George, the world was divided into two: the people who acted so strangely and had all the problems that he got blamed for and the ones who needed to be looked after.

  “Boo!” George suddenly said to the cat and smiled.

  The cat didn’t move a muscle.

  “Boo!” George said again and I stared at him in surprise.

  George was trying to play. He wanted the cat to join in his favorite game of hide and seek—even though she wasn’t having any of it. The cat stared at George, not batting an eyelid as he spoke, but the moment he took a step into the shed, she reared up like a vampire staring at a clove of garlic.

  “Boo!” George exclaimed as he looked at her. “Baboo!”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Her name.”

  “Baboo?”

  “Yes. Baboo.”

  The nickname stuck, and as days turned into weeks I woke up every morning convinced I’d find a litter of kittens and George stayed as interested as ever in the cat. But she still wouldn’t come near us and I wondered how I was ever going to get her some proper attention. However much I fed Baboo, she was still very thin, apart from her big belly.

  So one morning I decided enough was enough of the soft approach. After taking George to school, I walked into the garden and sneaked up to the shed door. Peering inside, I crossed my fingers because I needed a stroke of luck today.

  I got it. The cat was asleep in the carrier and I carefully picked up a broom before pushing its long handle into the darkness. Holding my breath, I eased the carrier door closed and waited for the stray to explode in rage when she realized she’d been locked up in cat prison. But instead of hissing and spitting like a cartoon cat, she just sat quietly in the carrier as I closed the door. I could swear it was as if she was asking what had taken me so long.

  Chapter 7

  I tried telling myself the cat hadn’t gotten to me when I dropped her off at the vet. But who was I kidding? I’d helped lots of animals before but this one was different. It was something about the cat’s eyes and the way she looked at me, as though she was wise. I’ve always thought animals have souls, just as people do, and this one’s soul seemed old; it was as if she wanted to tell me something she’d learned during all her years. But what?

  After handing the cat over to the vet, I waited until he had examined her to find out how long it would be until she had her litter. The vet had other news, though.

  “She’s a he,” he said when he’d had a look.

  I stared at him. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s a boy.”

  “But what’s that stomach if it isn’t kittens?”

  “A large cyst which needs to be removed. The cat has also been neutered, so he must have belonged to someone once.”

  The poor thing must have been abandoned or something. As I left the vet, I told myself the cat was in good hands now; someone else was going to look after her, or rather him. Baboo was going to have an operation and then he’d be fine. It was time to go back to looking after my foster pets and keeping things simple. I had to forget the cat.

  Only I couldn’t, could I?

  After leaving my telephone number so that I could get a progress report after the operation, I thought about the cat constantly. As I made up posters advertising a boy cat instead of a pregnant girl and told myself I was only doing what anyone would by helping to find its owners, I wondered how the stray was. After ringing the vet and being told the cat might not survive even after its operation because the cyst could have been a cancerous growth, I felt worried sick.

  But even as I wondered if I could break my no-pets rule and George asked about the cat after every phone call to the vet, I couldn’t bring myself to change my mind. How could I? I knew what would happen if I brought the cat home. It would be Polly and Fluffy all over again, and I had enough on my hands because looking after George was a full-time job. I was only 33 but felt like 100 some days because George still only slept for three or four hours each night. He was also getting more and more anxious as he got older, which had started to cause a whole new set of problems.

  It had all begun the year before in July 2005, when London suffered a terrible day. Fifty-two people were killed when bombs went off on a bus and three Tube trains, and George heard all about it on the news. While once he’d quickly forgotten things that worried him, the bombings stuck in his head. He talked about them constantly, and as I listened I realized he believed that anyone with brown skin, like the men who’d carried out the London bombings, might be trying to hurt people. No matter how much I told him there was good and bad in all kinds—whether their skin was black, white or purple—he just couldn’t accept it. The worst moment of the day was getting him on to a bus that was full of people going to work as I took him to school.

  “There’s a bomb on the bus, there’s a bomb on the bus,” George would chant if he saw anyone Asian carrying a rucksack.

  Or he’d count down as he looked at them getting on. “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five…” he’d shout, as if waiting for an explosion.

  It was absolutely terrible and I wished the ground could swallow us up when George did this. Knowing I wouldn’t be able to make him stop talking, I’d put my hand over his mouth as people stared.

  “Don’t breathe on me, don’t touch me,” he’d shout. “I’ve got to get off the bus, stand back, don’t touch me.”

  So I’d press the bell and we’d get off the bus a mile from school and have to walk the rest of the way.

  One day the bus driver beat me to it, slamming on the brakes as George chanted. “You’re going to have to get off,” he called to me. “He’s upsetting people.”

  I didn’t know what to do
. “He doesn’t understand what he’s saying,” I told the driver. “He doesn’t mean it. He’s not a bad boy. It’s because he’s worried. He’s not trying to upset people on purpose.”

  “I mean what I say. You’ve both got to get off. I can’t have this.”

  So as people tutted and stared, George stood up, oblivious to what was going on, and I got him off the bus. I could have cried as the doors slammed.

  After that George’s anxiety just got worse: he’d refuse to walk next to the criss-cross yellow lines of a box junction because he thought he’d fall into a hole and never get out; he’d gasp if my foot touched the lines between paving slabs and so we had to creep along to school without stepping on them; he’d stick his head in hedges when cars went by because the noise frightened him so much.

  Just getting him into school was an ordeal, so how could I possibly look after a cat as well, even if I wanted to? I knew it wouldn’t take much to care for one, but half the time I felt like a rubber band that was going to snap, and I couldn’t take on a sick animal as well as everything else. George was still seeing his psychiatrist and although I knew he trusted her enough to go into her office and sit down while she talked to him, George was as distant with her as he was with everyone. As he played with toys and the doctor tried speaking to him, he’d stare out the window or tell her he didn’t need to see anyone. He didn’t like the therapy group he’d been sent to either and was still as much in his own world as he ever had been. So even if I did end up deciding that it would be good for him to have a cat, shouldn’t he have a kitten that he could watch grow up, to give him the best chance of bonding with it, rather than an old cat that looked like something from an animal welfare poster?

  Then the phone rang.

  “The cat is ready to go home,” the vet told me. “Do you have one in mind?”