I hadn’t seen the neighbours’ cat in the stairwell for a while, so when I bumped into the husband on Monday evening, I asked straight out, “I’ve not spotted your cat around lately. He’s alright, isn’t he?” His face lit up with a grin. “Oh, he’s gone missing a few days back. Thank God for that!” I tried to keep my voice steady. “Why ‘thank God’?” But inside, I was boiling.
For the past fortnight, I’d noticed the couple next door frequently chucking their cat out onto the landing. Yes, they’d grab it by the scruff and toss it out. Sometimes the husband did it, sometimes the wife. Once, the poor thing flew right past my nose. “Watch it!” I snapped at the woman once, but she just glared and slammed the door so hard the windows rattled and probably a few micro-cracks appeared in the building’s foundation. At first, I naively thought they were letting it out for a wander, teaching it to be an outdoor cat. But soon I realised it was punishment for some misdemeanour. Did something wrong? Out you go into the hallway.
The cat, now terrified or deeply sad, would sit for hours on the fourth-floor landing, outside the brown leatherette door, waiting for forgiveness and re-entry. The owners always forgave eventually, but not quickly. If it mewed or scratched, the woman would whack it with a broom. I saw it myself once. I was climbing the stairs—the lift’s been broken for six months—and reached the fourth floor to find the familiar cat. I was about to greet it, but it ignored me, mewing loudly and clawing at the door, desperate to get home. Footsteps inside, then the door swung open, and the woman in a faded dressing gown, without a word, thrashed the cat with the broom and slammed the door shut. It happened so fast I couldn’t speak. I wanted to shame her for treating her pet so cruelly.
“Took a beating, did you, mate?” I asked as I approached. The cat looked at me with sad eyes, but there was gratitude too—that someone noticed. They’d throw it out for the slightest fault. Once I heard the woman shriek, “Oh you little devil! You knocked over the vase again! Steve, get the cat out now. It’ll learn not to leap on tables!” A minute later, the door cracked open, a hairy male hand appeared gripping the cat by the scruff, then released it, and the door clicked shut. The cat stood up, faced the door, and waited to be forgiven. I just shook my head. I don’t understand such discipline.
I stroked the cat and went home. It sat there, a look of universal sorrow on its whiskered face. I’m not overly sentimental, but that image stuck like a splinter. “How can anyone treat a living creature like that?” I pondered. Every time I passed, I slowed down, and the cat, recognising me, would start a low, tentative purr—a greeting, almost pleading. Sometimes I’d crouch, scratch behind its ear, and it would close its eyes, push its head into my fingers, then nudge its wet nose into my palm. It was warm, alive, and so trusting, and that made me feel rotten. Why such a sweet cat got such heartless owners? Why get a pet if you love no one but yourselves? “Strange people, honestly.”
Then one day, meeting the cat again on the landing, I resolved: if they tossed it out once more, I’d do something. Enough tormenting the poor animal. I didn’t know what, but I felt I had to intervene, or it would never stop.
The day my patience snapped was Friday. I came home furious—argued with colleagues at work, people shoved me on the bus, and a miserable drizzle had been falling since morning. My mood was rock bottom, maybe below. Climbing the stairs, I heard a familiar pitiful “meow” from the third floor. The cat was at its door again, but not let in. The hallway was chilly—not exactly May, as they say. I stopped on the landing, watching the cat, which purred and came towards me as usual.
Then—bam! All my day’s troubles suddenly seemed trivial. The cat had real problems. Huge ones. It was treated like a thing, a toy. What’s worse? I listened to the silence behind that brown door. No one cared about this cat. And I wanted to teach those neighbours a lesson.
“Right, that’s it,” I said aloud, surprising myself. “Come with me.” I bent, scooped up the cat. It immediately purred louder, rubbing its head on my damp jacket, leaving fur streaks. Then we went up to the seventh floor, where I live. I took the cat for just a couple of days. “Let the owners panic, search, worry. They’ll learn you can’t do that,” I thought, stepping into my flat. The cat settled surprisingly fast. It sniffed corners, jumped onto the sofa, spun around, and curled up on a blanket, looking at me gratefully.
While it rested, despite the drizzle and exhaustion, I dashed to the nearest pet shop and bought the best cat food, litter tray supplies, and toys—in case the furry lodger got bored when I was out.
The next day, Saturday, I checked the door several times, opening it to look into the hallway. The silence was eerie. No one walked the floors, called the cat’s name—I still don’t know what its name was—or put up missing posters. It seemed no one was looking for it. That was strange. Very strange. I went back, looked at the cat, and shrugged. It just stretched lazily on the sofa, not thinking about going out.
“Listen, do you want to go back to the hallway?” I asked on Sunday, pointing at the door. “I’m not keeping you. Go if you need.” The cat looked at the door, then at me, and demonstratively licked its paw. Then it stood, came over, and rubbed against my leg. The answer was clearer than words. I closed the door, chuckled, and picked it up. We went to the kitchen for breakfast, then to the living room to watch telly—it was the weekend, after all. The cat lay on my lap, purring like a little tractor, and my flat felt truly cosy for the first time in ages.
Monday came. No one had searched for the cat. I decided not to return it. The only thing gnawing at me was that the neighbours might accuse me of theft. Technically, I’d stolen their property—living property, with good intentions and for educational purposes, but stolen. I ran through scenarios: they’d call the police, accuse me of theft, I’d have to explain and justify. My motives might not be understood. That thought drilled into my brain all day at work. I was on tenterhooks, constantly checking my phone for calls. But there were none.
That evening, coming home, I saw the neighbour heading out with the rubbish. The black bag didn’t reveal much, but the outline looked like a cat litter tray. I waved him over and casually asked, “I haven’t seen your cat in the hallway for a while. How’s he doing? Alive and well?” He perked up, beaming. “Oh, he’s been gone a few days. Thank God!” I tried to keep my voice even. “Why thank God?” “Well, the wife wanted to take him to the country cottage and leave him there. Said she’s fed up—fur everywhere, yowling at night, knocking over vases. He can catch mice, she said, at least some use. But I didn’t fancy driving out there—too far, and she’d make me do chores anyway. Now the cat’s gone missing on its own, and we don’t have to go. I even knocked back a few pints last night to celebrate.” “Aren’t you sorry for the cat? What if something’s happened?” “Why feel sorry? It’s only a cat. Hey, why are you asking?” He squinted suspiciously. “Just curious,” I said, then turned and hurried towards the entrance, my insides seething.
“The country cottage, in late October. Dump the cat there to die. Not a shred of remorse. They’re even glad it ‘disappeared’ so they didn’t have to dirty their hands.” I pictured that trusting cat sitting on the porch of an empty cottage—or under a fence—waiting faithfully for them to return, just as it had waited outside their door. To them, it was a thing: sometimes fun, sometimes a nuisance, and if too much of a nuisance, you toss it out. First the hallway for a few hours, then the cottage forever.
When I reached the seventh floor and entered my flat, the cat was waiting faithfully by the door. My heart warmed. And I suddenly knew I’d done the right thing. Absolutely right to steal the cat from those heartless people who planned to abandon it in late autumn.
I smiled, picked up the cat, and we went to the kitchen to cook dinner. Afterwards, we lay on the sofa watching telly. Well, I watched; the cat just stayed close, shifting from one side to the other. Then it stirred again, but this time rolled onto its back and trustingly exposed its belly—its most vulnerable spot. It did that without thinking. Because it wasn’t afraid anymore.
Because a true home isn’t just a roof over your head or a bowl of cat food. A true home is where you don’t have to earn the right to belong. Where you are loved, simply for being there.
