Alfie the Doorstep Cat

Heart pounding, I slowed my pace, and made my way down the alley which led to some allotments where people grew vegetables. As it was still pouring with rain there were only a couple of people about, so despite my dampness and fatigue, I strode confidently to find shelter. One of the allotments had a shed with a door that was slightly ajar. I was too tired to worry about what might lie in wait inside, and gently nudged the door open with my nose. I was so cold and insecure, I feared that if I didn’t find somewhere dry to rest soon I would become very sick.

I slunk into the shed and was grateful to see a blanket at one end. It was musty and a bit rough; it certainly wasn’t the luxury I had been used to in my old life but at that moment in time it was like a palace to me. I curled up and tried to rub my fur dry as best I could, and despite being half-starved, I couldn’t face going to find any food.

I could hear the rain hitting the shed as I cried, silently to myself. I had always been a very spoilt cat, I saw that now. If I thought of all the things I took for granted when I lived with Margaret, it was a very long list. I knew I would be fed, loved, warm and cared for. I spent cold days sitting by a warm fire in Margaret’s living room. I spent cold days sunning myself by the window. I was mollycoddled and my life was one of pure luxury. It was funny how it was only now it was gone that I realised how lucky I had been.

And now what was to become of me? When Mavis had told me to leave I really didn’t foresee what would happen. I didn’t think I would be here, wondering if I could carry on. I really wasn’t sure that I could continue. Was my journey going to end here in this shed, on a smelly blanket? Was that my fate? I hoped not, yet I didn’t know what the alternative was. I knew that feeling sorry for yourself was wrong but I couldn’t help it. I missed my old life so badly and I just didn’t know what would become of me.

I must have fallen asleep because I was awoken by a pair of eyes staring at me; I blinked. There was a cat stood in front of me, as black as night, eyes shining like torches.

‘I don’t mean any harm,’ I said immediately, thinking that if she wanted to fight I would let her finish me off.

‘I thought I smelt a cat. What are you doing here?’ she asked, although not aggressively.

‘I wanted to rest. A dog chased me and I just ended up here. It was warm and dry and so …’

‘Are you a street cat?’ she asked.

‘I’m not supposed to be but I guess I am at the moment,’ I replied sadly. She arched her back.

‘Look, this is my hunting ground. I’m a street cat and I like it that way. I get the rich pickings of the creatures that come here looking for food - mice, birds you know, anyway, I kind of call this my patch. I just wanted to check that you didn’t think you could take it over.’

‘Of course not!’ I was indignant. ‘I just needed shelter from the rain.’

‘You get used to the rain eventually,’ she said. I wanted to say, ‘perish the thought,’ but I didn’t want to upset my new comrade. I slowly stood up and moved toward her.

‘Does it get easier?’ I asked, wondering if this really was my future.

‘I don’t know, but you get accustomed to it.’ Her eyes darkened. ‘Anyway, come with me I’ll let you hunt with me and I’ll show you where to get a drink but then, in the morning you move on OK?’ I agreed her terms.

I ate and drank but I didn’t feel better. As I curled up on the blanket again, and my new friend left me, I prayed for a miracle because as things stood I didn’t think I would come out of this journey alive.

I set off again the next morning as promised, but I felt despondent. As a few more days passed I experienced a mass of contradictions. One day I would feel I couldn’t carry on; the weather, the hunger and the loneliness would get to the core of me. But then the next I would push myself further, telling myself I owed it to Margaret and Agnes not to give up. I would see-saw between feeling hopeless in my quest or determined not to fail.

I got by with food and drink, and learnt to be more self-sufficient. I even began to get used to the weather although I still hated the rain. I hunted slightly more effectively, although I didn’t enjoy it, but I had discovered how to be a little bit tougher. I was just not convinced I really could be as resilient as I needed to be. Not yet.

One night, feeling in a more positive frame of mind, I came across a group of humans. They were all huddled around a large doorway; there was lots of cardboard and it smelt very bad. They all had bottles in their hands and some of them had almost as much fur on their faces as me.

‘It’s a cat,’ one of the furry men slurred, taking a drink. He waved his bottle towards me; the stench sent me reeling back. They laughed as I started slowly moving backwards, not sure what danger I was facing, if any. The man who laughed then threw a bottle at me, I dodged it but only just as it smashed to pieces next to me.

‘It’d make a nice hat to keep me warm,’ another laughed, slightly menacingly, I thought. I crept further back.

‘We ain’t got no food, bugger off,’ a third said, unkindly.

‘We could skin ’im for a hat then eat ’im,’ another said, laughing. I widened my eyes in horror and backed away. Then, from nowhere, a cat appeared.

‘Follow me,’ he hissed, and I ran after him down the street. Thankfully, just as I thought I couldn’t run any more, we stopped.

‘Who were they?’ I asked, breathlessly.

‘Neighbourhood drunks. They don’t have homes. You should keep away from them.’

‘But I don’t have a home either,’ I cried, and I felt like yowling again.

‘I’m sorry to hear that. But you should still keep out of their way. They aren’t exactly friendly.’

‘What’s drunk?’ I asked, feeling very much like a little cat with no idea about the world yet again.

‘It’s something humans do. They drink stuff and it changes them. Not milk or water. Look, come with me. I can sneak you some food and milk tonight and find you somewhere safe to sleep.’

‘You’re very kind,’ I purred.

‘I’ve been where you are; I was homeless for a while,’ the cat said, and then stalked off, gesturing with his paw for me to follow him.

His name was Button, which he said was a silly name for a cat but he had a young owner who said he was ‘cute as a button’, whatever that means. The house we went to was in darkness and I was so happy to be inside, somewhere warm and safe. It reminded me that I desperately needed to find a home before long. I told Button my story.

‘That’s sad,’ he said. ‘But you have learnt, like me, that one owner isn’t always enough. I visit another house on my street sometimes.’

‘Really?’ I said, intrigued.

‘I think of myself as being a doorstep cat,’ he said.

‘What’s that?’ I was curious.

‘Well, you live somewhere most of the time, but you go to other doorsteps until they let you in. They don’t always, but I have another house, and although I don’t stay there, if anything happens I feel I have options.’ As I questioned him he went on to explain that a doorstep cat got fed multiple times, by multiple families, they got petted and fussed over and enjoyed a high level of security.

Like me he had hated being homeless; and unlike me the young child had come to his rescue although he said that he’d engineered it. When he found his new family he’d looked as helpless as possible, ensuring they took pity and adopted him.

‘So you just looked like you needed feeding and grooming?’ I asked, ears pricked in interest.

‘Well I really did look like that. But you know, I got lucky, I pleaded for help and someone took me in. I’ll help you if you like.’

‘Oh I would love that,’ I replied.

He let me curl up with him in his basket, talking late into the night. And although I wouldn’t get much sleep, because I needed to leave early the next morning before Button’s owners woke, I felt safe for the first time since leaving Margaret’s. I also had a plan forming in my mind: I would make an excellent doorstep cat.

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