Nobody Will Take This Away from Us

There was no maze of separate rooms; everything was crammed into one sprawling, noisy hall. Along the lefthand brick wall sat the cat enclosures, and on the right, the dog pens. Shelter volunteers hustled past the cages every few minutes one lugging a sack of kibble, another balancing a bucket of fresh water, someone else swinging a bundle of clean rags.

Visitors were a colourful lot. A shy, thin family mum Emily, dad George and their lanky son Thomas tiptoed from cage to cage, craning their necks at each resident. A young couple whispered conspiratorially by the feline boxes. An elderly gentleman with a cane ambled leisurely past the dog pens. And then there was me, freshly crossed the threshold, dazzled by the smells, the clatter and the sheer number of animals.

The first pen housed Benny a pintsized mutt with a tail that seemed to have a mind of its own. He was fiercely chewing a rubber duck, completely oblivious to the humans gawking at him. A few steps away lay Duke, a grim, jetblack dog whose eyes had clearly seen better days. Squatting beside him was a girl in a bright puffer jacket, speaking in low tones to the dog as if trying to win him over.

To the left was a genuine cat exhibition: every breed, colour and size you could imagine. On a pink cushion lounged Molly, a lithe white cat who occasionally cracked open a lazy yellow eye to stare thoughtfully at anyone who dared approach. Hanging from the bars above was Archie, a chunky blackandginger kitten that looked like hed stepped straight out of a cartoon. He chirped weakly, flopped onto his back, shuffled lazily toward the corner where his water and food bowls sat, and thenupon noticing my approachbolted straight at me.

Youre a character, I muttered, poking my finger through the bars and giving Archie a gentle ear scratch. The bigheaded little fellow squinted, purred contentedly and, as if playing a game, nipped at my finger.

Look, Mum, how funny he is, whispered Thomas, trailing behind the cage. His parents exchanged a quick glance and both shook their heads in unison.

Hes tiny, Thomas, his mother murmured. Thomas grunted something incomprehensible, gave Archie a halfhearted look of complaint and moved on. I guessed the couple would have preferred a dog, so they were doing their best to steer their son away from the cats. Archie, however, didnt mind who petted him. He chattered loudly and brushed my finger with his left side, then his right, even giving his teeth a little chew, which produced yet another grin from me.

Maybe this one? I turned to the far end of the hall, where a dark corner housed a massive, regal dog. Hes big and handsome.

Oh no! his mother snapped instantly. Lets go look at the dogs instead. And that one that old chap.

Old, tiny Thomas muttered, then, sighing, followed his parents toward the dog pens. His grumble quickly turned to giggles when he reached the shelters favourite resident: a tiny bearlike pooch named Masik. The little fellow waddled around his cage, licking every finger that reached in for a scratch. Even the silent old gentleman smiled at the fluffy scamp, who was busy tugging at a plush toy in the corner.

My curiosity, however, lingered on the very last, shadowy cubby that had made Thomass mother flinch. I left Archie to his antics and stepped toward the back. A heavy sigh escaped me as I drew near.

Inside, on a grey blanket, lay an elderly cat. Not the polished pedigree type, but the sort you might find lounging in any garden shed. A dignified gentleman of the feline world, clearly approaching his twilight years. He didnt pace, didnt meow, didnt beg for attention. He simply rested, gazing into the void with eyes veiled in a grey film, a faint purr escaping his throat. When I approached, he paused, sniffed the air and let out a humanlike sigh. Then he rested his head on his skinny paws and closed his eyes.

Thats Harold, I whispered, startled by a cheerful male voice behind me. Turning, I saw a freckled shelter worker named Boris, badge flashing his name.

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

Nothing much. Just an old timer, Boris replied, opening the cage and topping Harolds bowl. The cat gave another soft sniff, rose sluggishly from his blanket and shuffled toward the food, bumping his nose against the bars a couple of times. Hes blind. Cant see a thing. Our resident senior, the boy added apologetically.

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

Hes not a street cat, the lad chuckled, flicking his nose as if to apologise for the joke. His owners dropped him off when they got fed up. They didnt have time, but Harold still craved attention. We gave him care, but who really wants an old cat? Even Natalie, our director, looked at him and said, No one will take him.

Fair enough, I said. People go for the puppies and the kittens.

If you ignore Daisy, Boris said, nodding toward a black dog with a girl perched beside him, Dante is a stubborn one, so shes trying to befriend him.

Does it work? I asked.

Slowly. Folks who are loyal rarely approach him, but Dantes exactly that sort of catlike dog. Same with Harold, Boris sighed. When we first brought Harold in, he didnt eat for a week. He just sat there waiting for someone to take him. As soon as anyone steps in, he sniffs the air, wags his tail, then realises its not his day and curls up again, miserable.

So you keep him hidden in the corner to spare him more disappointment? I probed. Boris gave a small nod, his lips tightening.

Exactly. Its sad. He gets his hope up, then collapses and sleeps till evening. Most likely hell spend his last days here. Who wants a blind, old cat? Anyway, any favourites youve spotted? Need a tip? the boy asked, eyes twinkling. I saw you standing by Archies cage.

Yep, that little rascal, I grinned, remembering the bigheaded kitten.

Archies a recent find. Kids on the street brought him in. Probably a stray from a litter. Good thing the dogs didnt claim him first. Weve vaccinated him, cleared him of fleas, and even got Natalie to train him to use the litter. He wont make a mess, Boris said, leaning in. So, taking Archie home?

Actually yes, I said, glancing at the sleeping Harold and adding softly, Could I adopt both Harold and Archie?

Seriously? the lad looked surprised, thought for a moment, then shook his head. We only allow one pet per adopter. Hold tight, Ill check with the director.

Alright, I agreed, watching Boris stroll away. I turned back to Harold, who seemed to understand my words. Hello, old chap. Want to come with me? Im not your owner, but I can promise you food, water and a proper chinscratcher.

Before I could finish, Harold lifted his nose, inhaled, and waddled to the cage door Boris had unintentionally left ajar while consulting the director. I extended my hand; the cat gave it a tentative sniff, nudged his cheek against my fingers and let out a weak meow.

Looks like a yes, I smiled, rubbing his ears.

Natalie said its fine, a sprinting Boris announced, spotting me petting Harold. Looks like youve made a connection.

Why cant we find him? I shrugged. Two old bachelors, a cramped flat and a tiny chinscratcher to top it off.

Honestly, if you dont mind, why take him? He wont live much longer, the boy whispered. I sighed, meeting Harolds greyveiled gaze.

Because the rainbow is best reached where youre loved, not in a cold shelter where every visitor breaks your heart over and over, I replied. A tiny motor seemed to whirr in Harolds chest, as if confirming my answer.

Ill sort the paperwork, Boris said, darting to the office, leaving me alone with the old cat. We sat in quiet companionship; I stroked his ear while he purred, his eyes fixed on mine as if seeing straight into my soul.

Later that night, I collapsed onto the sofa, the television murmuring in the background, while a small, frantic bundle of fur Archie nested on my chest. His coat still clung to dust from the corners of the house no single bachelors hand would ever reach. He snored sweetly, occasionally flexing tiny claws and nuzzling my ribs.

Beside my left foot, on a grey blanket, Harold curled into a tight ball. His paw rested on my thigh, as if fearing I might vanish like his former owners did. The moment I shifted, he lifted his head and sniffed, calming only when I gently scratched his head and whispered that I was still there.

If I got up to fetch a kettle, Harold would lurch into the hallway, bumping into corners, trailing behind him a tiny comettail of Archie. After a while, Harold learned the layout of the flat, navigating to his water and food bowls without a single crash.

When I left for work, both cats escorted me to the door. Harold lingered, staring at the doorway as though anchoring himself to my departure, then, after a pause, nudged my hand, licked it, and trotted back to his grey blanket. At night, they slept with me: Archie perched on the pillow, his fluffy rear flopping onto my head; Harold nestled by my left leg, his thin paw draped over my thigh. I knew, deep down, that Harolds time would eventually run out. Let him go where hes loved, not to a cold shelter that repeatedly slams its doors on an old cats weary heart.