Шейла Нортон - Charlie The Kitten Who Saved A Life

Morning, everyone. I hope you’re all feeling bright-eyed and bushy-tailed today? No? What’s up? Oh, you didn’t get much sleep, Smudge? Or you, Oliver? Nancy? None of you could get to sleep, could you … for worrying about the end of my story, wondering how I finally got brought home again? Well, I’m sorry, I must say. Imagine how I felt, wondering about it myself, night after night, curled up in that nook in the brick wall with Big snoring next to me. I might have gone a little bit feral myself in some ways, but I never quite got used to not having a soft, comfy bed to sleep in. So think yourselves lucky! I shall never take my good fortune for granted again, I can assure you.

One of the things that bothered me most during those long, uncomfortable nights, when I was often sleepless with homesickness and anxiety about the future, was that my family would be getting used to living without me. Caroline might have forgotten about me. What if they gave up on me, and got themselves a new cat to replace me? If they saw me now, would they even recognise me? I had no doubt I’d changed since I’d been living rough. Quite apart from the scars I’d got from that fight, and the slight limp I still had because of my leg wound, I could feel that I was thinner. I was probably unhealthy-looking from my peculiar diet, too, although my muscles felt harder and stronger. My fur was getting matted because, although I refused to neglect my personal hygiene, and I puzzled my new friends by insisting on washing myself thoroughly after every meal, I’d been used to having my coat cared for and brushed by my humans too. I guessed I’d be taunted and teased if I mentioned any concerns about my appearance, but I hated to think that I’d probably also got fleas by now. All the boys spent so much time scratching themselves, I had to accept it was inevitable, and started to regret all the times I’d fought against Julian and Laura when they’d been administering flea treatments to the back of my neck. We really should show more appreciation of how much our humans do for us, you know, but of course, we cats prefer to think we could manage without them. I’ve learnt my lesson the hard way. I always thought they needed us more than we need them, but in fact – I hate to say it, and you might not believe it – but the reverse is probably true.

Another thing I missed was playing. It probably sounds strange, but feral cats don’t play, not once they’ve grown out of their kittenhood, anyway. Their lives are too dangerous, too hard, and they have enough to do, trying to get food and keep safe from predators. Ah, don’t cry for them, Tabitha. They don’t know any different, remember. They’ve never had humans getting down on a nice soft carpet with them and rolling balls to them or tickling them, never had presents of toy mice filled with catnip … All right, I’m making you all upset now, I can see, so I’ll move on. But, you see, I missed it. I missed just having the freedom to leap around in the sunshine, chasing my tail or my shadow or some fluttery butterflies. After all, I was still only half grown. Now you know what I meant at the beginning of my story when I said I’d had to grow up fast.

Walking the streets day after day with one or more of the gang, trying to find the part of town where I’d been staying with my family, I was getting more and more dispirited. I knew I needed to find the holiday cottage before they moved back to Little Broomford, otherwise how on earth would I ever find them again? But I had no idea how much time had passed, and whether in fact they might have gone back already. Even if Caroline hadn’t forgotten about me, I hated to think of her missing me as much as I was missing her. And what if all the worries had proved true, about her being ill again? Or what if they hadn’t been able to make her head better at the hospital? I meowed to myself in distress at the thought of poor Caroline lying in bed, sick or in pain, without me there to cuddle up to her. Even if my family had left Mudditon now, I couldn’t give up searching for the cottage – it was my only link with them here. What else could I do?

‘I’m beginning to forget what my holiday home looked like,’ I admitted sadly one day to Big. ‘I’m not sure I’d know it now, if I saw it.’

‘Well, you know you’re welcome to stay with us permanently,’ he said. ‘You’ve fitted in really well. I’d never have thought it, when we first met. You’re almost one of us now.’

He was being kind, and I rubbed my face against his to show I appreciated it, but I don’t think he really meant it. I was doing my best, but I’d never quite be able to embrace their lifestyle. I was too fastidious, my accent still too genteel, and I couldn’t share their obsessive interest in female cats. And more to the point, however kind he was, and however much I could feel myself gradually changing, becoming more like my new friends and less like the little kitten I’d been before, staying with the feral cats permanently was obviously not what I wanted. I wanted to go home. I wanted my old life back. I just didn’t know how to make it happen.

But to pay them back for their friendship, I continued to act as their Human language translator, and I was able to report to them that there was a lot more talk around the town about our campaign against the seagulls. On one occasion, when I managed to sneak back to see my two human friends outside the café again, I found the one called Shirley reading a newspaper.

‘Look at this in the local paper, Jean,’ she said suddenly. ‘ Wild cats chase seagulls off Mudditon beach. “They saved our toddler from attack” says local mum Claire, 32. “The feral cats are doing a good job. Let them stay!”’

‘You see?’ said Shirley. ‘I told you the cats were helpful in their way. Good for them. I’m glad people are taking notice. I never liked seeing those poor starving cats being persecuted.’

I’d been listening from behind the fence up till then, but now I decided it was time to join them again.

‘Talking of poor starving cats,’ said Jean when I trotted towards them, ‘here’s our little tabby friend again, Shirley.’

‘Ah, he seems to have adopted us!’ Shirley said as I rubbed against her legs, purring.

‘Yes. He certainly seems too friendly to be a feral.’

‘But he isn’t wearing a collar, Jean.’

I was only half listening at this point, as I’d found a little bit of cake that someone had dropped under the table, and was intent on gobbling it up.

‘Look at him eating those crumbs, though!’ Jean said. ‘He must be absolutely starving, poor thing. Is there any milk left in the jug?’

At the mention of milk, as you can imagine, I let out a huge meow and, throwing caution to the wind, jumped straight up onto Jean’s lap.

‘Oh!’ she said, making a surprised noise that turned into a laugh. ‘He must have smelt it!’

She was pouring milk from a little white jug into a saucer. I tried to get my head under her arm so that I could drink it, but she held me back, saying ‘Careful, little cat! You’ll spill it!’ and she put the saucer down on the ground instead.

‘There you go, boy,’ she said, as I jumped off her lap again and began gulping up the milk furiously.

‘Thank you, that was delicious,’ I meowed. ‘Have you got any more?’

But they both just watched me, laughing, as I washed my whiskers.

‘He’s so sweet,’ Shirley said. ‘I’m tempted to take him home with me, you know. He’s just crying out for some love and care.’