Nobody Will Claim This

Nobody will ever take him, they used to say.

There were no separate rooms in the old Birmingham animal refuge; everything lay in one vast, noisy hall. Along the lefthand brick wall stood the cages for cats, and on the right the enclosures for dogs. Shelter volunteers hurried past them constantly one balancing a sack of kibble, another lugging fresh rags, a third wheeling a bucket of water to keep the drinking bowls full.

Visitors were plenty. A shy, modest family the slender Mrs and Mr Whitaker and their thin son, Tommy moved quietly from cage to cage, studying each resident with lingering curiosity. A young couple whispered by the cat pens, a silent old gentleman with a cane strolled leisurely beside the dog runs, and I, just having crossed the shelters threshold, was struck by the clamor, the smells and the sheer number of animals.

In the first dog pen sat Bonnie, a tiny mongrel with a frantic tail that twitched like a rubber duck. She ignored the people entirely, chewing at a squeaky toy. A short distance away was the pen of Duke, a black, hardeyed hound whose gaze had seen too many winters. Squatting beside that cage was a smiling young woman in a bright puffer coat Emily murmuring softly to the dog as if trying to befriend him.

On the opposite side the whole spectrum of cats was on display, every breed, colour and size imaginable. Sophie, a sleek white cat, lounged on a pink cushion, her yellow eye flickering open now and then to watch anyone who approached. Hanging from the bars above her was Milo, a roundheaded, blackandginger kitten that looked as if hed stepped out of a cartoon. He let out weak mews, flopped onto his back, rose and sauntered lazily to the corner where his water and food bowls sat. When he saw me drawing near, Milo abruptly changed direction and darted toward me.

Youre a funny one, I grumbled, slipping a finger through the bars to scratch Milo behind his ear. The bigheaded pup blinked his eyes shut, purred with pleasure and, halfplayful, gave my finger a gentle nip.

Look, Mum, how cute he is, whispered thin Tommy, scrambling to Milos cage. His parents, stepping closer, exchanged a glance and shook their heads in unison.

Hes very small, Elliot, his mother murmured. Elliot snorted something unintelligible, nodded, cast a plaintive glance at Milo and moved on. I sensed his parents preferred a dog, so they kept steering their son away from the cat cages. Milo didnt mind who petted him; the bigheaded boy purred loudly, rubbing his head against my finger alternately with his left and right sides, even pretending to gnash his teeth, which drew another smile.

Maybe this one? I turned to the end of the hall, where a dark corner housed another cage. Hes big and handsome.

Oh, no! his mother shook her head instantly. Lets look at the dogs instead. And that one hes very old.

Old, tiny Elliot muttered, sighing as he trailed his parents toward the dog pens. His grumbling quickly turned to laughter when he reached the refuges favourite resident a little bearlike pooch named Masik. The tiny dog waddled clumsily inside his pen, licking every finger that tried to pet him. Even the silent old gentleman smiled at the fluffy bundle, who was tugging at a soft toy in the corner.

My curiosity, however, drifted back to the faraway, shadowy corner that had so frightened Tommys mother. I left Milo to his own devices and walked toward the last pen, breathing heavily as I drew near.

Inside, on a grey blanket, lay an elderly cat. Nothing extraordinary just a common garden cat, now a noble gentleman approaching his twilight years. He didnt leap about, didnt meow, and made no effort to attract attention. He simply rested, his clouded eyes staring into emptiness, a faint purr drifting from his throat. When I approached, he silenced his purr, lifted his nose, and let out a sigh that sounded almost human. He then rested his head on his thin paws and closed his eyes.

Thats Archibald, I whispered, feeling a shiver as a cheerful male voice called from behind. Turning, I saw the speaker a freckled shelter worker named Barry, his badge reading Barry.

Whats his story? I asked, careful not to disturb the old cats peace.

Nothing much. Just an old soul, Barry replied, opening the cage and topping Archibalds bowl. The cat, after another delicate sniff, rose sluggishly from his blanket, wobbling toward his food, bumping his head against the bars a couple of times. Hes blind. Cant see a thing.

How did he survive on the streets? I wondered, turning to Barry.

He never lived on the streets, Barry chuckled, twirling his nose as if apologising for his laughter. His owners gave him up when they got tired of caring for him. They didnt have the time, and Archibald craved attention. We nursed him back, but who wants an old cat? Even Helen, our director, saw him and said, Nobody will ever take him.

I see, I said. People take the young and the easygoing.

Except for Daisy, Barry nodded toward the pen with the black dog and the girl beside him. Dante is a bit headstrong; shes trying to befriend him.

Is that working?

Slowly. Dogs that are loyal rarely approach people, and Dante is exactly that. Like Archibald, Barry sighed. When we first got Archibald, he went a week without eating, just waiting for someone to take him. As soon as a visitor entered, hed sniff the air, wag his tail, then, realizing it wasnt for him, would curl up again and look sad.

You kept him in the corner to spare him further disappointment? I asked. Barry nodded, his lips tightening.

Yes. Its sad. He hops up with hope each time someone walks by, then collapses, sleeping almost until evening. Most likely his life will end here. Who wants a blind, old cat? What about you? Seen anything you like? Perhaps I can help.

You saw me at Milos cage.

Ah, that little rascal, I smiled, recalling the bigheaded kitten.

Hes new. Kids found him on the street and brought him in. Probably a stray from a litter. Good thing the dogs didnt snag him first. Milos tiny; most adopters prefer older animals. Dont worry, weve vaccinated him, treated his fleas, even taught him to use the litter. He wont make a mess, Barry said, grinning and meeting my eyes. So, taking Milo home?

Yes, I think I will, I said, glancing at the sleeping Archibald. Could I take him too?

Really? Barry seemed surprised. He thought for a moment, then shook his head. Our policy allows only one animal per adopter. Wait here while I check with Helen.

Alright, I replied, watching Barry disappear. I turned back to Archibald, who seemed to understand my words. Hello, old chap. Will you come with me? Im not your owner, but I can promise you food, water, and a gentle hand to tug at your tail.

Before I could finish, Archibald lifted his nose, sniffed the air, and padded to the cage door that Barry had left ajar. I extended my hand; the cat nosed it, brushed his cheek against my fingers and let out a soft meow.

Seems the answer is yes, I said, scratching his ear.

Helen said its alright, a bustling volunteer called out, arriving just as I was petting the old cat. Looks like youve made friends.

Why not? I shrugged. Two old bachelors, a big flat, and a spry little kitten to keep them company.

The question is, why take him if he wont live long? the volunteer asked quietly. I sighed, looking into Archibalds clouded eyes.

Because a soul should go out on a rainbow where its loved, not in a cold shelter where each door slam breaks a heart, I replied. A faint whir of a tiny motor seemed to echo my sentiment.

Ill sort the paperwork, the volunteer said, hurrying off. The rest of the afternoon passed in quiet companionship; I stroked Archibalds ear while he purred gently, his gaze fixed directly into mine, those greyfiltered eyes speaking volumes.

That night, lying on the sofa, I watched the telly as a small, frantic bundle of fur named Milo settled on my chest. His coat still bore the dust of corners hed explored, his tiny claws occasionally dug into my skin as he dozed. Beside my left leg, on a grey blanket, lay Archibald, curled into a ball, his old paw resting on my thigh as if afraid I might vanish like his former owners. The slightest movement made him lift his head, sniffing the air, calming only when I gently petted his head and whispered that I was still there.

Whenever I rose to fetch a kettle, Archibald, bumping into the corners, would follow, while Milo trailed like a little tail. Over time Milo learned the layout of the flat, navigating to the kitchen without a misstep, his bowls of water and food waiting patiently.

When I left for work, both cats escorted me to the door; Archibald lingered, his old body barely moving, his nose twitching at the departing scent. He would wait until I returned, then nuzzle my hand, lick it, and retreat to his grey blanket. At night they slept beside me Milo perched on the pillow, his fluffy rear resting on my head, Archibald nestled by my left foot, his thin leg draped over my thigh. I knew, deep down, that Archibald would one day go his own way. I only hoped he would leave where he is treasured, not into the cold of a shelter that shatters an old cats heart with every creak of a door.