Alfie the Doorstep Cat

by Rachel Wells

I couldn’t believe my ears. This man was horrible and it was a huge disappointment that there were no children around. There were no toys in the kitchen anyway, and these two didn’t seem to be capable of looking after a cat or a child. It looked as if I had got it very wrong. So much for a cat’s intuition.

  ‘Oh, Jonathan,’ the lady said. ‘Don’t be so mean. He’s a cute little thing. And he might be hungry.’ I instantly regretted my unkind thoughts; this lady might look like a mess but she was kind. My hope began to rise.

  ‘I know very little about cats and I don’t care to know more,’ he replied, sounding haughty. ‘But I do know that if you give them food they’ll come back, so let’s not go there. Anyway, I have work to do. I’ll show you out.’

  The woman looked as upset as I felt, as Jonathan led her to the door. I curled myself up, trying to look my youngest and cutest for his return. But instead of melting, as I expected, he picked me up and threw – literally, threw – me out of the front door. I landed on my feet, so luckily I was unhurt.

  ‘New house, new start, not a new bloody cat,’ he said, as he slammed the door in my face.

  I shook myself off, mortally offended. How dare that man treat me like that? I also felt sorry for the woman he threw out. I hoped he hadn’t manhandled her in the same way.

  I suppose that should have been the end of my attempt to make a home out of number 46, but then, I’m not a cat to give up easily. I couldn’t believe that the man, Jonathan, was as horrible as he seemed. Using my cat senses, I got the feeling that he was more miserable than mean. After all, when the lady left, he was clearly alone, and I knew all about how hideous that could be.

  I rushed back to Claire’s to see her before she went to work. I could tell she’d been crying, because she was putting lots of stuff on her face to hide it. When she’d finished making herself look nice (which took her much longer than it took me), she fed and petted me, before grabbing her bag and leaving the house again. I walked her to the door, rubbing myself against her legs, purring and trying to convey that I was there for her.

  And wishing that there was more I could do to make her feel better.

  ‘Alfie, what would I do without you?’ she rewarded me by saying, before she left. I preened myself. After being horribly rejected by Jonathan, it was nice to be appreciated. I was falling in love with this sad young lady that I somehow knew I needed to help. People accuse us cats of being self-centred and egotistical but that is often far from the case. I was a cat who wanted to aid those in need. I was a kind, loving type of cat with a very special new mission to help people.

  I should have left Jonathan and number 46 alone, but something drew me back. My Margaret used to say that angry people were really just unhappy people, and she was the wisest person I’d ever met. When I first moved in with her, Agnes was very angry and Margaret said that it was because she was worried I would take her place. Agnes confirmed this, when she thawed towards me. I learnt then that anger and unhappiness were fine basket mates.

  So I returned to number 46. The car was absent from the front so the coast was clear. Feeling brave, I went through the cat flap and took a look around. I’d been right, the house was big and looked as if it should contain a family but, on closer inspection, it was a manly space. There were no soft touches, no floral patterns, no pink. It was all gleaming surfaces, glass and chrome. His sofa was the sort that I’d seen in some of the smart looking furniture shop windows I’d passed on my travels; metal and cream, which would never suit children – or cats, for that matter. I walked across the sofa, back and forth a few times, feeling satisfied. My paws were clean though, so I wasn’t being that naughty – I just wanted to test it out. I made my way upstairs, where I found four bedrooms; two had beds, one was an office, and the last was full of boxes. This house had no personal touches. No happy photos, nothing to suggest that anyone lived there apart from the furniture. It seemed as cold as the big, scary fridge freezer.

  I decided that this Jonathan man would be something of a challenge. After fending for myself for so long, I knew what I was capable of. This man clearly didn’t like me, or any cat for that matter, but that wasn’t a new experience for me. As I thought of Agnes again, her near-black face popped into my head and made me smile. I missed her so much, it was like there was a part of me missing.

  Agnes was the opposite to me in every way; a very gentle old cat. She would spend most of her time sitting in the window on a special cushion watching the world go by.

  When I arrived, a playful bundle of fluff, she immediately took umbrage.

  ‘If you think you’re staying in my house, you can think again,’ she hissed at me when we first met. She tried to attack me a couple of times but I was too fast for her, and Margaret would chastise her before making even more of a fuss of me, giving me treats and buying me toys. After a while, Agnes decided that she would reluctantly accept me as long as I didn’t bother her, and slowly, I charmed her and won her round. By the time the vet said that she had to go to cat heaven, we were family and we loved each other. I felt a physical pain as I remembered how Agnes would groom me, just as my mother had done when I was born.

  If I could get around the intimidating Agnes, then surely Jonathan would be cat’s play?

  After stalking round his house wondering what he would do with all that space, I decided that I would go out and get him a gift. Despite the fact that hunting wasn’t my favourite pastime, I wanted to make friends with him and this was the only way I knew how.

  My cat comrades from my time on the streets had given me mixed messages. Some of them took their gifts in constantly, despite the fact that at times, it made their owners angry. Others, like me, were smarter about when it was appropriate. It was, after all, our way of showing we cared. And I presumed that Jonathan was a man who liked to hunt, he seemed quite like an Alpha Tom, so I was pretty sure he would appreciate a gift. It would show him that we had something in common.

  I called for Tiger and asked if she wanted to join me.

  ‘I was sleeping. Why can’t you be a normal cat and hunt at night?’ she sighed, although she reluctantly agreed to come with me.

  She was right, cats normally hunted at night, but in my time on the streets I had learnt that it was also possible to find prey during the day which was my preference. I started prowling, and it didn’t take long for me to locate a juicy mouse. I crouched down low ready to pounce and then I quickly went in for the kill. The mouse ran one way then the other so I had difficulty trapping it with my paw. I flicked this way and that as it continued to elude me.

  ‘You are such a terrible hunter,’ Tiger laughed as she stood back watching.

  ‘You could help me,’ I hissed but she laughed again. Finally, just before I ran out of patience the mouse ran out of energy. I pounced again and at last I had it in my paws.

  ‘Do you want to come with me to take it to Jonathan’s?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, I want to see your second home,’ Tiger replied.

  I decided that as I wanted Jonathan to like me, I wouldn’t decapitate the mouse, and so I carefully carried it in my mouth through the cat flap. I deposited it by the front door, so there was no way that he could miss it. I briefly wished that I could write, because if I could, I’d leave a note saying, ‘Welcome to your new home,’ but instead I could only hope he would get my lovely message.

  I was late getting back to number 78, because Tiger and I had been lurking in the bushes, playing with falling leaves and waiting for Jonathan to get back. But as it got later, the sky began to darken and I started to get hungry. Due to my sacrifice of the mouse, I hadn’t eaten since breakfast so, reluctantly, I made my way back to Claire.

  I let myself in through the cat flap and found her in the kitchen.

  ‘Hello, Alfie,’ she said, bending down to give me a stroke. ‘Where have you been today? she asked. I replied with a purr. She reached into the cupboard and brought down a tin of cat food. She opened a carton of special cat milk.

  ‘Don’t
mind if I do,’ I thought, as I tucked in. When I’d eaten, I cleaned my whiskers thoroughly, while I watched Claire tidy up. I was learning more about Claire every day. Despite the fact that she seemed depressed, she was also very clean and tidy – that explained my horrible bath. She wouldn’t even leave an empty glass on the side in the kitchen. Everything was washed up, and put away. She was the same with her clothes. The house was immaculate, and she cleaned all surfaces frequently. More than was necessary, I thought. She had bought me special bowls to eat from and she’d place them on the floor for me, but when I’d finished dining, she would scoop them up and clean them immediately, and then she would spray and clean the floor. I was a pretty fastidious cat when it came to personal hygiene, but being with Claire made me clean myself more than usual; I didn’t want her to think I wasn’t worthy of her spotless house. And I especially didn’t want another bath.

  Every day when she got back from work, which she had told me was in a big office, doing something called ‘Marketing’, she would shower – she was always moaning about the dirt in London – then she would change into pyjamas, pour herself something to drink, and go and sit on the sofa. She would then normally start to cry. It had become a set routine in the short time that I’d been here.

  She did eat, but very little, and I couldn’t help but notice that she was really quite bony, the way I had been when I’d first arrived here. I knew I needed to try to get her to eat more food but I had no idea how. She seemed to drink quite a lot from a fancy glass, though. She always kept a bottle of wine in the fridge and she would empty it almost nightly. It made me think of the homeless people who had threatened to eat me. I know she wasn’t like them, but Button had explained the human concept of being drunk and I think Claire spent most nights a little bit so. After all, it was usually after a couple of these drinks that she would start crying. And although I would always comfort her when she did this, whatever I did, I couldn’t get her to stop. It made me sad, because all I wanted to do was to make her smile or at least put a stop to her tears.

  So far, I had tried playing ‘hiding behind the curtains’, to make her laugh, but she had acted as if I was invisible. I even fell off the windowsill once in my attempt to cheer her up and she didn’t notice that either, despite the fact that I yelped in pain. I tried crying with her; purring, nuzzling into her with my little warm head, giving her my precious tail to play with, but to no end. When she got very sad she would shut everything out, including me.

  At night, when she went to bed, I would go and sleep on an armchair next to her. She put a blanket on it for me, so it was perfectly comfortable, and it meant I could keep an eye on her. I would doze a bit but for most of the night I would watch her sleep, trying to make her feel that she wasn’t on her own. When her alarm went off in the morning, I would gently jump on her and lick her nose. I wanted her to feel loved when she opened her eyes every day, just as I did.

  But still, I felt sad myself, sometimes. Worrying about Claire was emotionally tiring, but I hoped that if I just stuck to my plan to help her, somehow I would know what to do; the answers had to be there somewhere.

  We had just gone into the sitting room that evening; her with her glass, me with my catnip toy that she had kindly bought me, when the doorbell rang. She looked a bit surprised as she went to open the door. I followed her protectively, touching her legs as she walked. A man stood on her doorstep. At first, I wondered if it was the man from the photo, but on closer inspection it wasn’t, although I did recognise him from some of the pictures. It was Tim, Claire’s brother. She didn’t look very happy to see him, though.

  ‘Didn’t take long for you to embrace the cliché,’ he said.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ she snapped.

  ‘Single women and cats. Sorry Claire, only joking.’ He smiled, but she did not and neither did I; we both stood aside and let him in. We followed him into the living room.

  ‘What are you doing here, Tim?’ she asked, as she gestured for him to sit down. I stayed by her side.

  ‘Can’t I visit my sister?’ he replied. He tried to stroke me but I arched myself away from him; I wasn’t sure if he was friend or foe. ‘Who’s this?’ he asked.

  ‘Alfie, he came with the house. Anyway, why didn’t you tell me you were coming? It’s not as if you could have been just passing.’

  ‘I’m only an hour and a half away, Claire, and it was a spur of the moment thing.’

  Claire seemed to be scrutinising him as she sat down in an armchair. I jumped onto her lap, trying to give Tim a haughty look, although I’m not sure I pulled it off. Sometimes it’s hard being as cute as me; people and cats don’t take me seriously.

  ‘Why didn’t you call me, at least?’ she pushed.

  ‘OK, let’s cut to the chase. I’m guessing you’re not going to offer me a drink?’ he asked. She shook her head resolutely.

  ‘Mum asked me to come. She’s worried about you. You know, it’s only been six months since Steve left you. You sell up and move a four-hour drive away from your home and Mum and Dad; from your friends and your job, to London – not exactly a friendly city – where you’ve never lived, and don’t know anyone. Of course we’re worried. Worried sick. And Mum is beside herself.’

  ‘Well you can stop worrying. Look at me, I’m fine.’ She looked and sounded angry.

  ‘Claire, I am looking at you, and you seem anything but fine.’

  Claire sighed. ‘Tim, I needed to get away, can’t you try to understand? Steve left me for another woman and they live down the road from my old house, not to mention near Mum and Dad. I couldn’t bear to see them every day, which I would have done if I’d stayed. I think you should all be proud of me. I gave him the quick divorce he wanted. I didn’t make a fuss. I sold our home, got myself a really good job, and bought this house. I did all that while my heart was broken into a thousand pieces.’ She stopped and wiped the tears from her cheek. I nestled into her as much as I could.

  ‘And that is great, Claire,’ Tim sounded softer too. ‘But we’re worried about how you really are. You’ve done amazingly, but you’re unhappy and Mum feels that you’re too far away. Can you just do me a favour and go home for the weekend soon, just to reassure her?’

  I thought that it might be a good idea; Claire would see her family and it would give me a chance to explore further, without having to worry about her. Was I being selfish? I hoped not.

  ‘Listen, Tim, I’ll make a deal. I’ll go home one weekend if you promise to tell Mum that I seem all right to you.’

  ‘OK Sis, I’ll do that, but you know what? Can you at least make me a cup of tea before I start the long drive back?’

  I decided to make friends with Tim when I realised he was an ally for Claire. We played with some of my toys together and I liked the way he got down on his hands and knees to fuss me, not minding that he looked daft. I rolled on my back, with my legs in the air and let him tickle my tummy; one of my favourite things ever. And while we played, he asked me to look after his sister and I tried to convey to him that I definitely would. I felt the weight of responsibility but I was ready for it. After we waved him off, I wondered if I could sneak out and go and see if Jonathan was home, but instead, Claire picked me up and carried me up to bed.

  I arrived again at number 46 when it was barely light. Claire had told me that she had an early start at work and although she took the time to leave me some food, she rushed out of the door without giving me any affection. I tried not to be offended; humans were like that, they had a lot more stuff going on than we cats did. But still, it reinforced my view that I needed more people to look after me.

  I let myself in through the cat flap. The house was so quiet, almost eerie. It was also in darkness all the curtains were drawn and the blinds down. Being largely nocturnal animals, we cats are very good at seeing in the dark and using our other senses to negotiate our way around. I was quite an expert at dodging both indoor dangers, like furniture, and outdoor ones, like trees and other anim
als.

  I wondered for a moment what it would be like, being Jonathan. Having this big space, but being in it alone. That made no sense to me. In my cat basket in my old house, I would curl into the side, making myself as cosy as possible. If I’d had a basket that was any bigger, it wouldn’t have felt like home. Actually, my favourite times were after Agnes thawed towards me and we shared a basket. The warmth and the comfort that I got from her was wonderful. I missed it every day of my life. I wondered if Jonathan felt the same, and whether that was why the woman had been in his house yesterday. Did they snuggle like Agnes and I did? I thought they probably did. Although, if he wasn’t nicer to her, I doubted she would come back.

  I sat in the hallway at the bottom of the staircase. One of the many things wrong with Jonathan’s house was his lack of carpet. Every floor was wooden, which could be quite a lot of fun for a cat – I had already discovered the joy of sliding along the floor on my bottom – but it was cold, and I loved a carpet to scratch at. And instead of curtains to play with, he had these rigid things which weren’t any fun. I realised, yet again, that this wasn’t really a house meant for a cat, but I still couldn’t help but be drawn to it.

  After what seemed like ages, a dishevelled Jonathan appeared on the stairs, still wearing his pyjamas. He looked tired and scruffy; a bit like I did before a good groom. He stopped and stared straight at me, but he didn’t exactly look pleased to see me.

  ‘Please tell me you didn’t leave the dead mouse on my mat?’ he said crossly.

  I gave him my best purr, as if to say, ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘You bloody cat. I thought I told you that you weren’t wanted here.’ He looked and sounded angry as he pushed past me into the kitchen. He took a mug out of the cupboard and started pressing buttons on a machine. I watched as coffee poured into the cup. He went to the fridge, which looked like a spaceship, and pulled out some milk. As he poured some into his mug I licked my lips hopefully. He ignored me, so I let out my loudest miaow.