Andrew Paul sat by the window, staring at the ad on his phone. The letters swam before his eyes—his glasses had gone missing again. But the text was simple enough:
“Free cat to a good home. Ginger, neutered, litter-trained.”
No. Not free. For sale. That way there was at least a better chance he’d end up in a well-off family.
“Ginger,” he called softly. “Come here, you ginger boy.”
The cat appeared as if by magic—a chubby, purring little tractor on soft paws. He jumped onto Andrew’s lap and curled up. Warm, alive.
Andrew stroked him behind the ear. Ginger squinted with pleasure, and the old man felt his heart tighten. Six months alone now.
“What are we going to do with ourselves, eh?” he whispered. “The medicine is nearly gone, and so is the pension.”
The cat purred on, suspecting nothing. Andrew opened the calculator on his phone. Food—ten pounds a month. Litter—another five. Better not think about the vet.
And the blood-pressure pills cost twenty pounds. Every month.
“You see, Ginger, I don’t want to part with you. I just can’t manage any more.”
He typed into the ad: “Cat to a good home. Thirty pounds.” Then he deleted it and wrote again: “Selling cat. Fifty pounds.”
The phone rang immediately. A woman’s voice:
“Hello, I’m calling about the cat. May I come and see him?”
“Yes,” Andrew replied hoarsely. “Come round.”
An hour later, there was a knock at the door. On the threshold stood a woman in her fifties, with sad eyes.
“Susan,” she introduced herself. “And where is the cat?”
As if on cue, Ginger trotted out of the kitchen—but not towards the visitor. He went straight to his owner, rubbing against his legs, purring, gazing up with adoring eyes.
“Here he is, my ginger boy,” said Andrew, trying to sound indifferent. “A good cat. Affectionate.”
Susan crouched down and held out her hand. Ginger sniffed it but didn’t go to her. He returned to his owner.
“Why are you selling him?” she asked quietly.
“Circumstances,” the old man muttered, looking away.
Then Susan noticed: the pensioner’s hands were trembling. And the cat wouldn’t leave his side.
She slowly looked around the flat. It was clean and tidy, but somehow empty. On the windowsill stood a dried-up ficus. On the table lay a pill box, nearly empty. And another one, also nearly empty.
“Nice flat,” she said. “Have you lived here long?”
“Forty years already,” Andrew replied, stroking Ginger. “We bought it with my wife…”
He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.
Susan nodded. She herself had lost her dog Molly not so long ago—a mongrel who had lived fifteen years. The emptiness in the house was so deep the walls felt ready to cave in.
“Is the cat healthy?” she asked.
“Oh yes, healthy enough. It’s just me…” The old man hesitated. “I can’t manage any more. My age, you understand.”
Ginger suddenly let out a long meow and rubbed against his owner’s leg, as if he understood what was being discussed.
“What kind of food do you give him?” Susan continued her questions.
Andrew pointed to the kitchen. Two bowls stood there—one with water, one with dry food. Cheap stuff, from Tesco. Not the worst, but far from good.
“Is he fussy about food?”
“No, he’ll eat whatever you give him. A good lad. Very clever. When Helen was ill, he used to lie on her bed and keep her warm. As if he understood.” The owner’s voice trembled.
Susan crouched down in front of the cat. Ginger looked at her, but pressed close to his owner.
“Tell me honestly,” she said softly, “why exactly fifty pounds?”
The old man looked flustered. “Well, he’s a good cat. Pedigree.”
“Ginger is a mongrel,” Susan gently countered. “Handsome, but a mongrel. And you love him. So why are you selling him?”
Andrew turned to the window. He was silent for a long time. Ginger purred on his lap, and the owner stroked him with shaking hands.
“The medicine got too expensive. And the food. He was ill a month ago—I took him to the vet. Paid fifty pounds. My last.”
“What about your daughter? Son? Relatives?”
“My daughter lives in Germany. She’s raising three of her own; she doesn’t have time for her old man. And I don’t ask for anything.”
He sighed.
“When Helen was here, we managed somehow. Alone—I can’t.”
Susan listened and felt her heart twist. There he sat, this proud old man, selling the only living thing left in his home. And the cat didn’t understand; he just nuzzled closer, trusting.
“What if I don’t buy him?” she asked.
“Someone else will.” His voice was firm, but his hands still trembled. “The ad is up. I’ve had calls.”
“And you won’t miss him?”
Andrew lifted his head sharply. “Do you think this is easy for me? Do you think I’m doing this for fun?”
He stopped short, pressing his lips together. Ginger was startled by the sudden movement, jumped off his lap, but didn’t go far—he sat down beside him.
And then Susan understood: she couldn’t just buy the cat and walk away. She couldn’t separate them.
But something had to be done.
Susan was silent for a long time.
“Andrew,” she said, “what if I don’t buy the cat?”
The old man started. “What do you mean? Why did you come, then?”
“I came to see. I’ve seen. And I’ve decided—I’m not going to buy the cat.”
Andrew went pale. His hands shook even more.
“But you called! You said you needed a cat!”
“I do need one,” Susan said, rising from the chair and walking to the window. “Just not this one.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
She turned around. And he saw tears in her eyes.
“There’s nothing wrong with the cat. There’s something wrong with his owner.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You do understand, Andrew.” Her voice trembled. “Not long ago I lost my dog. An old, sick dog. She lived with me for fifteen years. And you know what the worst part was before she went? Not the illness. Not the pain. It was that she looked at me as if she was apologising—for being a burden.”
Andrew swallowed. Ginger padded over to him and rubbed against his leg.
“And now I look at you and Ginger, and I see the same thing. He’s reaching out to you, and you’re ashamed that you can’t feed him. You think you’re doing the right thing by handing him over to a good home.”
“And isn’t it right?” the old man burst out. “Is it better for him to starve with me?”
“Who said he has to starve?”
A pause. Ginger meowed—softly, longingly.
“I have another idea,” Susan went on. “I’ll bring food. Every week. And money for the vet, if needed.”
“What?” Andrew stared at her as if she were mad. “Why would you do that?”
“Because I want to help the cat. But I don’t want to separate you.” She smiled through her tears. “You could call it a happiness lease.”
“A lease?”
“Yes. I pay for the right to come and pet Ginger. And I also get a reason to visit a lonely man. Have tea. Talk.”
Andrew was silent. His eyes were wide, his lips trembling.
“That’s… humiliating,” he forced out.
“Why humiliating?” Susan seemed genuinely surprised. “It’s a deal. An honest deal. I get a cat to spend time with—you get help with the food. Mutually beneficial.”
“No! I’m not a beggar! I’m not a scrounger!” Andrew stood up abruptly.
“Who said you were?”
“You did! You’re offering money to a stranger!”
Susan shook her head. “I’m offering a deal. Payment for the chance to spend time with a cat. And with a clever, interesting man who raised that cat.”
“Stop!” His voice cracked. “Don’t pity me!”
He fell silent. He sat back down in the chair and lowered his head.
Ginger jumped onto his lap.
“Do you know what the worst thing is, Andrew?” Susan asked quietly. “Not poverty. Not old age. But pride—the pride that stops you from accepting help.”
“It’s not pride,” he whispered. “It’s shame.”
“Shame for what?”
“For not managing. For my wife dying while I stayed. For never saving enough. For my daughter being so far away. For not even being able to feed the cat.”
Tears rolled down his wrinkled cheeks.
“And now you’ve come. Offering help. And I’m like some…”
“Fool?” Susan gently supplied.
“Yes. A fool.”
She came closer and crouched beside the chair. “Andrew. I have an empty flat. I have a dog that’s gone. I have a job I don’t want to go to. And no one around to tell how my day went. But you have Ginger. And a kind heart.”
“How do you know about my heart?”
“Because a cruel man couldn’t love a cat like that.”
Ginger purred louder, as if in agreement.
“So what do you say? Shall we make a deal?”
Andrew was quiet for a long time. He stroked the ginger fur. He thought.
The old man sighed. A deep, long sigh.
“All right then. Shall we give it a try?”
Two months passed.
Andrew sat by the window with Ginger on his lap, looking down at the courtyard. Susan would be coming soon—on Tuesdays she always brought food and little treats.
“Hear that, ginger boy?” he said softly to the cat. “Those footsteps sound familiar.”
Ginger lifted his head, ears pricked. Yes—it was her.
A knock at the door.
“Andrew? It’s me!”
“Come in, come in!” The old man stood up, straightening his shirt. In those two months he had visibly perked up; even his cheeks had some colour.
Susan entered with large bags, smiling. “Hello, handsome!”—to Ginger.
The cat immediately started purring and rubbed against her legs.
“And hello to you, Andrew. How are you? How do you feel?”
“Oh, fine. Went to the doctor yesterday—blood pressure normal. Your pills help.”
“Oh! Tomorrow’s Saturday. Maybe we could go to the park? Take Ginger out on his harness?”
Andrew looked embarrassed. “Oh, I don’t know. The park. People will stare—an old man with a cat on a lead.”
“Let them stare!” Susan laughed. “They’ll be jealous—such a handsome cat you have. Right, Ginger?”
The cat meowed approvingly.
They had tea in the kitchen. Andrew told her about the neighbours, the gossip in the courtyard. Susan listened, nodded, laughed. Over those two months a special closeness had grown between them—not quite family, but very warm.
“You know,” she said, finishing her tea, “your daughter called this week?”
“She did. Asked how I was. I told her about you.”
“And what did she say?”
“She was surprised,” the old man admitted. “She said, ‘Dad, I’m so glad you have a friend.’ Friend.” He smiled. “Sounds strange at my age, doesn’t it?”
“Why strange? Friendship has no age.”
Ginger suddenly jumped off the windowsill and trotted to his food bowl—full of quality food that was no longer a problem.
“And I almost sold him,” Andrew said quietly.
“Good thing you didn’t.”
“Yes… I thought it was the end of the world back then. But really, it was the start of a new life.”
Susan nodded. “Sometimes the hardest moments lead to the brightest changes.”
They sat in silence, watching Ginger crunch his food with a businesslike air. He had everything now—food, affection, the attention of two people who loved him.
