З життя
Вона була безсмертною… Безсмертною кішкою
Вона була вічною… Вічною кішкою. Що це було – мутація, особливий вид чи щось ще, досі невідоме науці, вона не знала. Кішку це не цікавило. Вона просто жила.
Кішка пам’ятала, що спочатку жила біля річки. Потім пам’ятає безкрайню степ. Густі ліси, поля. Яка різниця, аби тільки можна було полювати, хоча вдача супроводжувала не завжди. І тоді вона прийшла до людей, сама. Так було безпечніше, і їжа завжди поруч із ними знаходилася.
Минули століття, кішка опинилася на іншому континенті. І не тому, що хотіла – а тому, що в той момент вона була надзвичайно цінною. І між золотом і кішкою вибору навіть не стояло. У ті часи завжди обирали кішку.
Але з роками цінність зменшувалася і кішку продавали, губили, викидали, зраджували. Тільки вона все одно постійно тулилася до людей. І не через любов — любові до цих дивних істот кішка не відчувала ані крихти.
Просто їй дуже хотілося жити, а часом було так холодно! Зима приходила до неї щороку, і степ кішці тепер тільки снився… Хтось би їй сказав, що з Африки її давним-давно привезли в Україну, але розповісти про це кішці ніхто не міг.
Скільки було з нею поруч людей, кішка не пам’ятає — вона не рахувала. Та й яка різниця, скільки їх – вони майже однакові. Завжди невдоволені простим забарвленням, завжди здивовані, що кішка не приносить кошенят. А навіщо їй давати життя, якщо її життя і так вічне.
Черговий чоловік з’явився раптово… Просто йшов, просто побачив. Він не знав, що годину тому цю кішку принесли і викинули, як відслужену свою річ.
Він просто помітив: ось кішка, кішці холодно, а він має можливість цю кішку зігріти. Вона вже готувалась попросити, готувалась принижуватися… Але цього не знадобилося — її забрали і так.
Кішка затишно згорнулася у нього на грудях, зігріта теплом тіла і вкритою старою кофтиною. Що ж, ще один людина в її довгому котячому житті. Тільки чому ж їй хочеться, щоб цей хлопець жив разом з нею таким же вічним життям? Хай він і черговий, але якийсь вже відразу майже рідний.
А він — простий чоловік, він просто жив. Поміняв комуналку на маленьку квартиру, одружився, народились діти, і вони отримали квартиру більшу. Кішка завжди була поруч з ним, і з ним же переїжджала.
Вона все чекала: коли ж, як і всім, вона набридне? Коли ж закінчиться життя з цим чоловіком? Але вона не закінчувалася. Вперше кішка була дуже здивована — її обожнювали, любили, жаліли. А те, що вона довго живе – так хто тоді знав терміни котячого віку, адже інтернету тоді ще не придумали. А книг про кішок майже не писали.
Одружився, розлучився, виростив двох дітей. А те, що дружина пішла, так нехай буде щаслива, ніхто ж не зобов’язаний бути поруч із ним, якщо того не хоче. А кішка хоче, вона до нього ніби прив’язана. Тільки чомусь зовсім не старіє, вона, як і раніше, була молода.
Оно і зрозуміло! Він годував її добре і вирішив, що все діло в відмінному харчуванні. Навіть у 90-ті він годував її краще, ніж себе. Тому що він — сильний чоловік, а вона – маленька кішка і якось мерзенна її обділяти заради себе.
Але, на жаль, він все ж не вічний… І, схопившись вночі за серце, чоловік ледве перевів подих. Кішка, як завжди, була поруч, з тривогою вдивляючись в рідне обличчя. Саме тоді вона зрозуміла, що жити без цієї людини більше не хоче! Не потрібне їй таке вічне життя!
Кажуть, що одного бажання недостатньо. А я скажу – це у людей, а кішки все одно зроблять так, як вони хочуть, як їм потрібно. Це знає кожен котолюбець – кішка все одно доб’ється свого. Вона підпорядкує під себе що і кого завгодно. Природа це чи людина.
Вона почала старіти… Втратили ясність очі, провісла спина, трохи набрякли суглоби. Але чоловік не помічав, для нього вона була все так само прекрасна. Його кішка, яку він знайшов у 20 років, а тепер йому вже восьмий десяток.
Вони вийшли на заході і сиділи поруч на лавці, щільно притискаючись одне до одного. Серце знову кольнуло і чоловік тихенько зітхнув. За себе він не переживав, він думав тільки про свою кішку.
— Як же ти будеш, Лапушка, без мене?
Він погладив м’яку спинку. Кішка ще тісніше пригорнулася до його стегна і поклала втомлену морду на рідні коліна. В такт погладжуванням муркнула нерозбірливо… А якби людина знала котячий язик, то вона би обов’язково зрозуміла:
— А хто сказав, що я без тебе буду?…
One Day, I Spotted My Cheerful Sister in a Shop, Walking Hand in Hand with a Distinguished Gentleman—Both Wearing Wedding Rings
One day, I spotted my usually cheerful sister in the local shop, walking hand-in-hand with a distinguished-looking gentleman, both of...
My Wife Packed Her Bags and Vanished Without a Trace: A Brother’s Betrayal, a Mother’s Escape, and the Fight to Reclaim a Life Built on Trust, Not Manipulation
His Wife Packed Her Bags and Disappeared Without a Trace “Stop pretending youre a saint. Itll all work out. Women...
He Told His Wife She Was Too Boring—But When She Transformed Her Life, She Found Herself Bored of Him Instead
It was nearly two years ago now, though it feels a lifetime past, that I heard words from my husband...
No One’s Home
Nobodys House Henry would wake, just as he always had, without an alarm, at half past six. Silence filled the...
The Letter That Never Arrived
Diary entry I sat by the window for a long while last night, although there wasnt really much to see....
My Darling Girl: A Story of Family, Secrets, and the Search for a Lost Mother Marina always believed she grew up with her real parents, but after their deaths, she discovers she was adopted after being found alone in the woods as a baby. Torn by the late confession, Marina keeps the truth hidden from her own family. Years later, a stranger arrives with a plea from an elderly, dying woman—Marina’s birth mother, who has searched for her daughter all her life. With a DNA test confirming their bond, Marina must face both the joy and sorrow of her newfound origins, ultimately choosing to protect the love and memory of the only parents she has ever known.
My Dearest One. A Reminiscence Margaret learned, almost by accident, that she had grown up with adoptive parents. Even now,...
My Mother-in-Law Dug Up My Beloved Lawn at Our Country Cottage to Plant Vegetable Beds—So I Made Her Restore Everything Just as It Was
William, are you sure we havent forgotten the charcoal? Last time we ended up at the village shop, and all...
The Troublesome Next-Door Neighbour “Don’t touch my spectacles!” bellowed the former friend. “Keep an eye on your own! Think I don’t see who you’re ogling?” “So you’re jealous, aren’t you?” Tamara Borisovna replied in surprise. “Is that who you’ve got your sights set on! I know just what to get you for Christmas: a lip-rolling machine!” “Why not keep it for yourself!” shot back Lynda. “Or are your lips beyond any machine’s help now? Don’t think I don’t notice!” Old Mrs. Tamara swung her legs off the creaky bed and wandered over to her home icon corner to recite her morning prayer. She wouldn’t have called herself especially religious: she knew, out there, something must be in charge—someone had to be running the show! But who? That was anyone’s guess. That higher power went by many names: the cosmos, the prime mover, and, of course, the good Lord! Yes, that kindly white-bearded gent with a halo, sitting on his cloud and pondering everyone on earth. After all, Tamara had long since left her prime and was edging up to seventy. And at that age, best not to quarrel with the Almighty: if he doesn’t exist, a believer has lost nothing; but if he does, a nonbeliever has lost everything. At the end of her morning prayers, Mrs Tamara added a few personal words—naturally! The ritual done, her soul lighter, she could face the new day. In Tamara Borisovna’s life, there were two main problems. And no, not the classic British ones of fools and potholes—those were old hat! Hers were her neighbour Lynda and, of course, her own grandchildren. The grandchildren were simple: today’s lot never wanted to do anything. Still, at least they had their parents to handle them! But as for Lynda—the woman was a nightmare, forever needling Tamara in the classic style! On the big screen, feuding national treasures like Judi Dench and Maggie Smith are charming and funny. But in real life? Not so much—especially when someone starts picking at you for no reason. And, to top it off, Tamara had a friend known as Pete the Moped. His full, grand name was Peter Geoffrey Cosgrove—that’s just his surname! His nickname was easy to work out: as a lad, Pete—what a name!—loved tearing around the village on his moped. Or, as his cheeky younger self called it, his “mopette.” So, the nickname stuck: Pete the Mopette—or “the Moped” for short. His decrepit moped had long been gathering dust in a garden shed, but the name clung on: that’s village life! Once, they’d all been family friends: Moped Pete and his wife Nina, Tamara and her own late husband. Now, their other halves rested peacefully in the churchyard. Tamara carried on her friendship with “the Moped” out of habit: they’d known each other since school, and Pete made a good mate. Back then, they were a friendly trio: Tamara, Pete, and Lynda—and pure friendship it was, with no hint of flirtation from the young gent. They’d go everywhere shoulder to shoulder: Pete the dashing suitor in the middle, with the two girls symmetrically hanging off his arms. Like a teacup with two sturdy handles! Well, you never know… Over time, that friendship soured. First into coldness from Lynda, then open hostility. Like in those cartoons: sometimes you notice someone’s been replaced… It was as if Lynda had become someone else—starting after her husband passed away. Before that, things had been bearable. Of course, people change over the years: the thrifty become stingy, the chatty become gossipers, and the envious get torn apart by spite. Maybe that’s what happened to Lynda. Old ladies can be like that—and the men are no better. Not that she didn’t have something to be jealous of. First of all, Tamara, despite her advanced years, still had a trim figure. Lynda, on the other hand, had grown as round as a pudding—where to find her waistline was anyone’s guess. Against her neighbour, she came up short. Second, their shared old friend had been paying Tamara much more attention lately. They’d often sit and giggle over private jokes, almost bumping their grey heads together. Lynda only got short, clipped phrases. And Pete popped round to see Tamara much more often—they rarely needed to beckon him over at Lynda’s. Maybe she wasn’t as clever as that insufferable Tamara. And her sense of humour was lacking—while Pete was always one for a laugh. There’s a fine old British word—“natter”—that sums up Lynda’s recent behaviour. She’d grumble at Tamara for the slightest thing. It began with the loo: Lynda griped that Tamara’s was in the wrong place and stank! “That bog of yours reeks!” blasted Lynda. “Really, now? It’s been there forever, and you notice only now?” retorted Tamara, not missing a beat. “Oh, and you had your cataracts done on the NHS for free! Nothing good comes for nothing!” “Don’t you talk about my bloody cataracts!” screamed her former friend. “Mind your own eyes! Think I don’t notice who you’re gawping at?” “Oh, so you’re jealous, are you?” Tamara replied. “I’ll get you a lip-rolling gadget for Christmas—you’ll need it!” “You want to keep it yourself?” Lynda shot back. “Or are your lips a lost cause now? Think I can’t tell?” Oh, she could tell all right. This wasn’t the first row, not by a long shot. Pete advised Tamara to fill in the old outdoor lav and set up a nice modern inside one. Her children clubbed together for a new indoor bathroom, while trusty Pete did the hard graft and filled the old pit. There—time for you to rest, Lynda, and sniff somewhere else! Oh, hardly! The next gripe: Tamara’s grandkids had supposedly scrumped Lynda’s pears, since the branches hung over Tamara’s fence. “They just thought the tree was ours!” Tamara tried to explain, even though she could swear no one touched the pears—they were all still hanging. “Your hens are always digging up my vegetable patch and I don’t complain!” “Hens are stupid birds!” Lynda sniffed. “Just a broiler or a layer! And your grandchildren need discipline, Grandma—not giggling with strange men morning to night!” Wash, rinse, repeat: it all swung back round to Pete. The grandkids got an earful, pear season ended—“Rest easy, Lynda!” …but no, suddenly, the overhanging branches were “damaged”! “Show me where!” Tamara demanded—there was nothing, swear to God. “There! And there!” insisted Lynda, jabbing gnarled fingers sideways—while Tamara’s hands, with their long, even fingers, still looked elegant. A woman’s hands are her signature! Even in the country—a little style never hurt. So, “The Moped” suggested they just prune the branches: “They’re on your land—your rules!” “She’ll just start screaming!” fretted Tamara. “Bet you she won’t! And I’ll back you up,” promised Pete. And, true enough: Lynda witnessed Pete sawing away but never uttered a word! The pear tree matter closed. But soon it was Tamara’s turn to raise a fuss—Lynda’s chickens were constantly foraging in her veg patch. This year, Lynda’d bought a new breed—worse than before. And a chicken, well, it’ll scratch up anything and everything. As a result, every seedling ended up dug out. Kindly requests to pen in the hens only earned a nasty smirk from Lynda: “Go on, tell someone—what will you do?” One option: nab a couple of hens and roast them, just to make a point! But Tamara was too kind-hearted for such risky experiments. So, her clever, fun-loving friend suggested a technique straight from the internet: sneak some eggs out onto the veg patch at night. Then, in the morning, ostentatiously collect them—“Oh look, as if the chickens laid here!” He was tech-savvy: their village had had internet for years. And, you know, it worked: thank you, World Wide Web—at last, you’re good for something! Lynda froze, eyes wide, as she watched Tamara gathering eggs by the handful and strolling back indoors. Needless to say, the chickens stayed away from then on. “So, how about making peace now? Lynda, what do you say? Nothing left to argue about!” Yeah, right! The next complaint: smoke and cooking smells from Tamara’s summer kitchen, where she cooked until autumn. “As if! It never bothered you before—and maybe I hate the smell of roast meat! Maybe I’m vegetarian now! And besides, Parliament’s brought in new barbecue laws!” “Where do you see a barbecue?” Tamara argued. “Maybe try cleaning your glasses, dear!” Tamara Borisovna was patient and polite, but by now, even her patience had run out: Lynda was simply impossible—what a word! In short, there was no pleasing her… “Maybe someone should experiment on her for science,” Tamara sighed to Pete as they sipped tea. “She’s going to eat me alive!” Tamara really had become thin and drawn—the daily drama took its toll. “She’d choke! And I won’t let her,” Pete promised. “I’ve got a better idea!” A couple of days later, one fine morning, Tamara heard singing: “Tamara, Tamara—come out and see!” At the door stood Pete, beaming: he’d fixed up his battered old moped—Pete and his Mopette! “Why was I always so glum before?” began Peter Geoffrey with a grin. “Because my moped was broken! Ready for a spin, gorgeous? Let’s relive our youth!” And Tamara leapt right on! After all, Parliament had declared old age officially cancelled: now, everyone over sixty-five was an ‘active pensioner’! Off they rode, in every sense, into a new life. And soon, Tamara became truly Mrs Cosgrove: Peter Geoffrey Cosgrove proposed! Everything fit together, and Tamara moved in with her husband. And Lynda stayed behind: lonely, bitter, and cross. Tell me, isn’t that yet another reason for envy? With no one left to quarrel with, all her spite just built up inside. And that’s not good—you’ve got to let it out somewhere… So, hang in there, Tamara, and lock your door! Who knows what’s next—oy vey! Village life is a song, after all. What did you expect? All that fuss over a loo, for nothing…
Dont touch me spectacles! shrieked the former friend. Mind your own eyes! You think I cant see who youre ogling?...