He was taken from the children’s home when he was just two years old. He ended up there after the police brought him in, having found him alone in the streets. He was a wailing bundle, left on a bench in the local parkone of those places where drunks gather every day as if each was a celebration.
His adoptive parents adored him; they cherished him and worked hard to conceal that he wasnt their biological child. They moved to another cityManchester, as I later learnedso no one would ever let slip that he was adopted.
I was that boy. Or rather, I am. At school, things fell apart. Someone found out and eagerly spread it around. Soon, I was being teasedcalled a charity case, pointed at, mocked, shoved. No matter what I did or how quiet I was, it never made sense. I always thought of myself as a calm, well-behaved child. But it didnt matter.
My dad, his face stony with anger after finding out what was happening, took me to his old mates boxing club. There, I got knocked down hard and oftenbut Id get back up, grinning bloody-mouthed, and keep going. After school, being punched didnt feel so bad in comparison.
Eventually, I learned not only to defend myself but to wipe the smirk off my tormentors faces. I became something of a legend at that school.
I finished school, then went on to university in London to study zoology. After graduation, I joined a wildlife expedition. When I returned, I had landed a job at a magazine dedicated to animals and worked part-time at the local university and the citys big zoo.
Things were going well. But then Mum fell ill. She became unwell after Dad diedhe passed away so suddenly, a heart attack behind the wheel of the lorry he drove for work.
I gave up my university job to care for her, spending days and nights by her side, struggling to write my latest piece for the magazine. When I finally laid her to rest, I moved into her old flat. Everywhere, there were memories of those twomy pillars, my everything.
Thats when I found the first: a tiny, scruffy grey kitten abandoned near the wheelie bins.
Come on, stray, I said. Dont crythings will get better now. I was a foundling once too.
He was the first of many. Before I knew it, my two-bed flat was filled with cats and dogs. I took care of each one as best I couldchanging litter, walking the dogs, dragging everyone to the vet. Years went by like this.
Between caring for stray and rescued animals, my university work (I eventually returned), and contributing to the magazine, I didnt have much of a social life.
I did meet women occasionally, but romance always fizzled after they set foot in my flat. You know the sortmen clever in everything except keeping their home clean. That was me. No matter how much I tried, I struggled with tidying up. Guests would wander in, wrinkle their noses at the smell, eye the chaos, and flee at the first whiff of barking and meowing. The calls stopped coming after that.
And so, as I edged towards 50, I remained a bachelor. I had a good wage, a respected post at the university, and loyal readers. None of it seemed to help with matters of the heart.
I arranged this date onlineher profile picture was striking. When I arrived at the restaurant, nerves washed over me. She sat radiant, around forty, with long legs, an elegant face, and a designer dress.
Lord above, I thought. What chance does an old, frayed man with a houseful of animals have with someone so glamorous and young?
We ate, made small talk, and shared a token drink. She looked at me, maybe wondering why she hadnt just left, especially when she had other, better offers. But somehow, she stayed, perhaps disarmed by the helpless, boyish smile I couldnt hide.
A bit touched, is he? she mused, as I recounted stories of my travels. But then, abruptly, I blurted out:
I know Im not your type, you probably wont pick up if I ring again. Especially once you know about my flatoverrun by cats and dogs, utter chaos.
I managed a grin.
Youre lyingwhy bother? she shot back. If I said lets go to yours right now, would you be embarrassed to be caught out?
I was taken aback and started to apologise.
So, there arent really all those cats and dogs? she asked, seat softened a little.
Im more than happy to prove it this instant, I replied.
We paid and squeezed into my little hatchback.
Up the stairs, I unlocked the door; out rushed four cats and three dogsright for my feet, then staring at her Seven curious faces peered up.
My word, she exclaimed, eyes wide. So its all true?
Every bit, I said. Theyre all foundlings, like me.
Hows that? she raised an eyebrow.
Were waifs, me and them, I laughed. They used to call me Stray at school.
We moved to the front room, where I hurriedly cleared takeaway boxes off the table and offered her a seat while gathering snacks from the fridge. Then I sat and poured out my storythe whole lot, maybe for the first time ever to a stranger.
Her face went still, her eyes red. She asked for something stronger than wine, so I fetched an old bottle of Scotch from the cupboard. At least the money I earned let me keep a bottle or two for special occasions.
Not quite the moment for this, she remarked. Pour me some vodka, would you?
After a shot, she dabbed her streaming eyes with a napkin from her bag.
Goodness, you Brits do make strong vodka, she said.
I slid back into my chair and finally, perhaps, shared my truthas if I was handing her secrets Id never dared speak.
And as I spoke, she noticed the seven animals at her feet, gazing up at herworried, hopeful.
Oh, you darlings, she cooed, crouching and setting down the rubbish bag to gently stroke each one. I promise, Ill be right back. Honest!
The little crowd parted for her when she went to take out the bins, then gathered anxiously at the door until she returned.
Back inside, she turned to me. Did you ever read my dating profile?
Embarrassed, I grinned sheepishly. Honestly, no. I just really liked your photo. Thats why I got in touch.
I see, she replied. If you had, youd know Im a vet, a PhD, and the owner of a large animal clinic.
Blimey, I breathed.
She smiled, leaned over, and kissed me. The dogs bounced around madly, barking for joy. The cats all rubbed up against her legs.
Well then, she said. Lets whip something up for the morning, shall we? Ive got to be up early, and breakfast doesnt make itself…
Since that night, my little flat became cosy, clean, the smell of home-cooked food drifting through the rooms. The cats and dogs grew plump and lazy. After a few months, we moved into a spacious apartment right in central London.
I still dont quite know what I did to deserve all this luck. But the animalsnow our animalsthey know.
After all, maybe cats pray for happiness for their people too. And sometimes, on rare occasions, the angels who listen to cats answer those prayers. Sometimes…
