VETERINARY CARE: A COMMITMENT TO OUR FURRY FRIENDS

When someone asks me to have a look at the cat, in case its just getting senile, I first stare at the people around the animal, not at the cat itself. If a pet shows odd behaviour, it is almost always a sign that somethings off with its human companions.

This time its the neighbour on the landing, Mrs. Margaret Hargreaves, who rings my doorbell. She lives on the ground floor of a postwar council block where the walls sigh and draft in February. She tells me:

Theres an old lady and her cat. A few years ago someone used to visit, now only the postman stops by. She says everything is fine, but could you have a look The cat sits at the front door every day at five and doesnt move. He just sits there for hours while she carries on as if nothings wrong.

I head up. The door opens to a diminutive woman with a tidy bob and a knitted waistcoat. Behind her is a sideboard holding a teaset, a little glass cabinet filled with perfume bottles, and an old radio that has been playing the same BBC station for a decade. The flat smells of buckwheat, mint and something faint but deeply familiar.

Good afternoon you must be the vet? Please, come in, but dont take off your shoes; its chilly.

Im a vet, yes. Wheres the cat?

Hes shy. Hes gone under the armchair. He doesnt like visitors, but hell lie on us at night. And at five, hes at the door.

I note the five. I dont ask whether its a.m. or p.m., I just remember it.

The cat is indeed under the armchair: a plump orange tabby, at least ten years old, dry nose, whiskers like antennae, eyes that seem to ask, Who are you and why have you intruded on my den? I sit on a cushion stuffed with old cottonone of those handsewn ones people used to make at homewhile Mrs. Clarke begins to talk:

His routine is set in stone. In the morning we have porridge, I watch the telly, and he perches on the windowsill. At five he always drops down to the door. Always.

Why five?

The children used to ring the doorbell at five. They dont anymore, but he keeps waiting.

You say hes fine how are you doing?

Me? I have enough. The telly works, the buckwheat is there. What more could I need?

Mog, the cat, slides out from under the chair, not toward me but to the door, checks that the knob isnt squeaky, then settles on the rug and rests his head on the warm fold of a woolly coat that never seems to get put away.

Hes waiting, Mrs. Clarke says. Maybe he thinks theyll return. I dont stop him. Let him hope.

I dont launch into a lecture about how cats dont truly wait but merely like routine, nor do I suggest more toys or enrichment. This isnt just any cat, and it isnt just old age. It feels like a private conspiracy between the two of them: We sit here so nobody notices time slipping by.

When Im leaving, she offers:

If youre passing by, drop in. I can bake a cake. Itll cheer the cat up.

I nod. And then I wonder if I, too, could use a little waiting.

Two weeks later Im driving through the neighbourhood, a rescued cat in a drip after surgery. I realize I think of Mrs. Clarke more often than half the patients I see. Every vet has a case that pulls you backnot because its dramatic, but because its quiet, like a library: comforting rather than alarming.

I buzz the intercom; she doesnt look surprised.

The cake isnt ready, but tea is, she says.

Inside, Mog is already at the door, in the same spot, on the same fold of the coat, as if the pause were simply a breath.

Hes become my clock and my calendar, she laughs. If he doesnt purr in the morning, it must be Monday. Mondays make me feel off.

She isnt joking. She says what she means.

I see that she and her cat have an honest relationship. He doesnt promise everything will be fine; he just stays. She doesnt pretend everythings perfect; she simply puts out milk each morning.

You know, she says suddenly, I used to have a cuckoo clock. My husband fixed it on our first winter together. Then I took the hands off because it hurt to watch the time pass when there was no one to share it with.

Now the clock hangs without hands, but every day at five Mog sits at the door.

I watch this lazy, rotund orange cat on the rug and think about how we humans build elaborate systemsreminders, calendars, timersto keep track of what matters. Animals just sit and wait, and thats enough.

I ask if the children ever call.

Rarely. Theyre good people, just busy with their own lives. I have my buckwheat, my cat, and you, doctor.

Im not really a doctor. I just like listening.

Then youre better than a doctor.

Before I leave I sit beside Mog. He doesnt stir, only his tail twitches like a tiny antenna. I touch the coat; its cold, yet it still smells of lifenot sadness, but expectancy.

What if they do come? Mrs. Clarke asks suddenly.

What if, I reply.

Only the cat will notice first. Hes my radar. Yesterday he was at the door first thing in the morning and I spilled my tea, thinking it was a surprise, only to find it was the neighbour.

We laugh, the first genuine laugh weve had in ages.

When I step out, snow begins to fallsoft, fluffy, crunching gently. In that crunch I hear a whisper:

Soon.

I return again later, emptyhanded, no sample box, just because sometimes patients call not for illness but for companionship. As a vet, Im not curing anything, only checking that the eyes are still bright.

That day Mrs. Clarke opens the door quicker than usual.

I knew it. Hes been at the door since dawn, she says.

Mog passes me like a piece of furniture, settles by the cupboard, and doesnt even meow.

He used to nap at my husbands feet, right there in the crook of his knee. When he passed she pauses he still goes to that spot. At first I tried to stop him, then I realised hes keeping a seat for him.

We sit for tea.

I found an old photo album. Look, here we are at the cottage with the kids. Want to see?

I do, not because I love albums, but because when someone pulls out memories, they seem to clear themselves, become more transparent.

One picture shows a man in a deck chair, a cat at his feetstill the same orange tabby, only younger, slimmer, tail a little thinner. The caption reads, Summer, Dad, Whiskers and raspberries. Beside it is a little girl with curly pigtails.

Thats Ellen, the youngest. She loved the cat most of all. She now has her own children and her own cats Mrs. Clarke adds, Im sure shed recognise him if she saw him.

A few days later I get a call.

Is this Peter? The vet? I found your number on my mothers fridge. This is Ellen, her daughter.

Yes, how can I help?

I wanted to ask that cat is it Whiskers? Is he still with you?

He is, I answer.

Silence stretches.

I just found an old photo and realised hes the only one who never left. Not even for the cottage.

He still sits at the door, exactly as before.

At five?

At five.

That weekend Mrs. Clarke doesnt answer the door right away. I start to worry until the lock clicks.

Sorry, my hands were shaking. I was crying yesterday, she says.

Mog sits in the corner with a new red collar and a little bow.

Ellen brought him. She came with her son.

A pause.

Her son is like the catquiet, just listening. Then he says, Ill remember you forever.

Mrs. Clarke cries again, but this time the tears arent painful.

I leave later than usual. As I turn, I see Mog perched at the window, watching me go, as if he knows some of us are meant to return again and again, until everything is finally quiet, or finally warm.