Let This Evening Be the Last: He Will Spend It Beautifully, Gazing at His Love, Wishing Her a Long Life, Before Curling Up by Her Window and Drifting into Dreams, Never to Return…

Let that night be his last, and let it be a graceful one. He would gaze upon his beloved, wish her a long life, then curl up by her window and slip into his dreams, never to return.

He survived three winters in a row and that was no exaggeration. For a street cat, such endurance was almost a miracle; few alley felines lived so long.

He was born in an ordinary terraced house, beside a mother cat who trusted people. Then life turned on its head.

The owners were killed in a car crash, and their grownup son, a man who loathed cats and kept a fierce guard dog, decided the extra residents had to go. Without much thought he drove the whole feline family onto the pavement.

The first winter claimed them all mother, brothers and sisters. Hunger took some, frost killed others, and the rest fell prey to dogs or were run over by carts. Only one survived a ginger kitten.

A caretaker from the council yard found him. Found is a generous word; the man merely spied the tiny orange bundle, snatched it from the mothers reach, hauled it down to the cellar and set it by the hot water pipes. There he fed it throughout the cold months.

Thus the kitten lived.

No one ever gave him a name. Through the cracked cellar window he would push his way out, learning the hardknocks of street survival staying clear of dogs, hiding from passersby, rummaging through bins, fooling hunger.

The second winter came alone. The old caretaker was dismissed for drinking on the job, and a stern replacement took over. He gave no food, but at least he didnt smash the window. That was enough; the kitten hunkered down again in the cellar, learning to fight for both meals and life.

The third winter proved the cruelest. All the cellar windows had been glazed. Where could he go? Where could he hide from the biting cold?

He had to find a new refuge. The cellars were sealed, but in one backyard he discovered a forgotten trench where a warm mains pipe ran just beneath the earth. Thick hedges hid the ditch, and the townsfolk never noticed it.

He stuffed the little hollow with rags and old clothing, fashioning a makeshift nest. Overhead the balconies cast a shelter, and the snow fell more slowly there. Still, the heated pipe melted the snow, and damp, icy wind seeped to his bones

He made it through that winter, but emerged a halfghost: skinny to the marrow, fur in ragged tufts, eyes forever wary. In the eyes of the street, old age arrived early, and he was already counted an elder. Food now came only as meagre scraps.

Then the trench was found. Before the first autumn downpours, someone finally noticed the unsightly ditch and decided to fill it in.

He came, as always, to spend the night on the pipe and saw fresh earth being shoveled. He settled opposite a little mound and stared long. It was, in effect, his death sentence. He realized at once that such a place would not be found again; the few safe spots were already claimed by other cats.

He took shelter in a damp pile of fallen leaves, shivering, yet clinging to life. And in that precarious state, on the very edge of existence, he fell in love.

Yes, truly, he fell in love.

He allowed himself no hope. She was breathtakingly beautiful: a wellkept cat who lived in a groundfloor flat, often perched on the sill and watching the world beyond. He sat below, eyes fixed on her, and somewhere inside the chill a heat began to stir.

One evening he gathered courage: he scrambled up a garden tree, leapt onto a wide metal awning beneath her window. The owners had once used that awning in winter to store provisions, and now it lay unused. From that night onward he returned often, perched there, watching the cat behind the glass and sighing.

He asked for nothing, only the privilege of watching. Occasionally she would hop down to her food bowls, and he would swallow his own saliva not from envy, but from a simple animal emptiness.

He resolved that if fate were to claim him this winter, it should happen there, by her window. He would curl into a ball, keep his gaze on her, and go away not in terror but in warmth.

He even smiled at the thought: a thin ginger cat, quietly dying on his beloveds sill.

One day the lady of the flat spotted him and shouted, waving her arms. He fled, only to return, and return again.

The flats male occupant a stout man named Arthur saw the scene and did not chase him away. He met the cats eyes and saw there everything: hope, pain, weariness, and adoration for the houses beautiful cat. He could not send him off.

Instead, he began slipping a morsel of meat, a piece of minced pork, a sausage, through the window. The cat ate. One night Arthur leaned close to the glass, and the shivering ginger lifted a paw, pressed it to the pane and let out a plaintive meow.

The domestic cat glanced first at the man, then at the ginger. Surprise flickered in her gaze.

​You know, the man murmured softly, shes not keen on a second cat. I asked for a kitten she refused.

He lowered his hands. The ginger understood. He bore no grudge. The house was not for cats like him; it belonged to pedigree, pure, young, pampered felines.

That evening the wind was especially bitter. He was soaked, frozen, and suddenly realised there was no point left in the endless search for corners, in the ceaseless fight for survival.

If the end was inevitable, let it be here, by the window from which his little marvel watched.

He decided that night should be his final one.

He wanted to meet his end with dignity: to look once more at the creature his heart yearned for, to murmur something gentle to her, as if wishing happiness and long life, and then disappear. First he would finish the last bite the man had left for him; when she retreated to her cosy nest, he would curl up right by the cold glass and slip into a sleep from which there was no waking.

Snow began to fall unexpectedly, and the cat on the sill watched with delight as white flakes twirled outside the pane and settled on the ginger cat perched outside. The sight amused her; her eyes danced at the snows ballet. She could not have imagined that such beauty would slowly kill the one watching through the icy glass. She knew not of frost, nor what it meant to freeze from within.

Meanwhile the ginger grew stiff. The sausage he had devoured an hour earlier still offered a faint ember of warmth, but it melted away with his waning strength. The wind bit, the cold lodged itself in his bones, and even holding a straight posture became a labour. He still stared at her, but now he understood he could not endure much longer.

He prepared for this farewell as if it were the most momentous event of his life. He wanted to go out beautifully: a final glance at his beloved, a soft meow of good will, a mental wish for her long and warm days. The plan was simple: finish the last morsel, wait for her to retreat inside, then, curled into a tiny ball at the chilly pane, step into his dreamswhere no cold nor hunger could reach.

The snowfall intensified, and the cat on the warm sill watched, entranced, as the flakes drifted onto the gingers back. For her it was a charming spectacle, almost a game. She could not fathom that beneath the pattern lay death. She understood neither frost nor pain nor hunger; she had never known the street.

The ginger, sitting outside, grew more like a statue. The remnants of heat from the sausage faded. Each breath grew heavier, his paws went numb, his tail turned to ice. He still gazed at her, but his body was surrendering.

At last, his eyes met hers one final time. He pressed his numb nose to the icy glass, did not wait for her to leave, and curled into a tight little sphere.

His small frame trembled. The cold gnawed every bone. He tried to rustle his sides, to conjure a speck of warmth, and for a moment it seemed to help, but the frost was stronger. It stole his life slowly but surely.

Then an odd sensation washed over him: the chill ceased, a gentle drowsiness wrapped him like a blanket. He chose not to fight it; the end was already near.

He opened his eyes a last time and saw her the very cat that had driven him up to the awning, the reason he had clung to life all those days. How beautiful, he thought, what could be sweeter? A gentle death

His head drooped, his eyes shut. In his mind the window seemed to open, warm hands lifted him, stroked him, whispered tender words. Beside him stood the cat whose heart had once raced, and together they walked toward a warm bowl of food.

What a wondrous dream, flickered through his mind.

The housecat continued to watch the snow blanket the ginger. She meowed, softly at first, then louder, paw tapping the glass. No response came. She meowed again, more urgently, then hammered at the pane as if pleading, Why wont you answer?

But the cold had already sealed his body. He could not hear. He slipped into silence.

Snow turned him into a white mound, covering him like a shroud.

Whats she shouting at? a woman in the flat muttered irritably. Looking at the snow?

The man, Arthur, lifted his head from the settee, glanced at the window. The cat was still pawing at the glass. Something clicked in his mind. He recalled the gingers eyes, recalled the girls gaze.

He sprang up, rushed to the window, and began pulling the sash aside.

What are you doing?! his wife shrieked. Are you mad? Close it right now!

He heard nothing; the cat too seemed to urge him on, leaping, crying.

The window flew open, and wind and snow rushed in.

Close it! his wife shouted again, but he was already searching. In a corner of the yard lay a small, snowcapped heap.

He plucked up the frozen, featherlight body and carried it to the bathroom. The cat followed, the woman trailing behind.

Steam filled the room as he rinsed the chilled ginger with warm water. The housecat perched on the tub edge, gazing at his face, letting out soft feline whimpers.

Im doing what I can, the man whispered, his fingers massaging the little chest, trying to coax breath back into the orange fur. The woman stood at the doorway, silent.

He pleaded, Come on please back to me

The cat meowed along with him.

Suddenly the ginger seemed to hear a distant call, as if from another world, beckoning him back. He wondered, Why return? Its peaceful there. Why go back to pain?

Then he heard her voicethe one that had kept him alive each day. It pulled him forward.

Could it be shes so close? I must see, even if just with one eye

His eyes fluttered open slowly, as if weighted down by stone. He finally saw them: Arthur, his face flushed with excitement, and beside him, the housecat, alive, eyes sparkling with joy.

There you are! Arthur shouted, cradling the damp ginger to his chest.

The housecat leapt onto the floor, twirled, and purred loudly.

Grab a towel! A hairdryer! Quickly! Arthur called at his wife.

They dried him, wrapped him in soft towels, blew warm air over his shivering body, stroked him, whispered kind words. The ginger lay dazed, unsure if he was dreaming. The housecat nosed him, rubbing her cheek against his.

He thought, This cannot be real. Its too beautiful to be true. I died for this

Then the woman handed him a bowl of warm milk. He lapped it up, a hot wave rolling down his throat. He coughed, nudged the bowl with a paw, then clasped it with both paws and began to lap furiously.

It will live, Arthur declared confidently.

The housecat settled beside him.

Whats his name? the woman asked after a pause.

Hes called LovedOne, Arthur replied with a grin. Thats his nameLovedOne.

The cat meowed in agreement.

Now LovedOne lives in that flat. His coat shines, his tail is fluffy and regal, his eyes calm and grateful.

They sit together on the sill, watching the street below. LovedOne sometimes remembers what it was like to be on the other side of the glass. A sigh may escape him, and she rests a paw on his shoulder, as if to say, Youre home now. You belong to us.

Down below, the street cats that never gained entry still roam, still hoping to outlast another winter.

Hope endures.