Why Was Pronya Cast Aside?

A municipal sweepers van pulled up to the tip. A big, grey rag flew onto the concrete slab. The caretaker, Mr. Thompson, muttered as he went to clear it, only to watch the rag wriggle away behind the bins. Peering into the gap between the metal wall and the containers, he spied a sizeable grey cat

The longawaited, universally beloved summer had finally drawn to a close. Its crowning monthAugusthad turned out that year to be unusually cool and drizzly, counting down its last few days.

One early morning a sleek foreign car rolled into a typical council estate courtyard. As Mr. Thompson was sweeping up the unusually damp, postnightrain leaves, the gleaming vehicle caught his eye. No one in the block owned such a posh automobile.

The tinted windows hid the interior. Probably a visitor for one of the tenants, he thought, but he was wrong.

The car lingered a minute, then rolled past the rubbish bins and halted. The passenger door cracked open, and a large grey rag was flung onto the concrete.

Some people wont even bother to toss rubbish properly, the sweeper grumbled, hurrying over to tidy the awkwardly abandoned litter. The car meanwhile pulled away, leaving a disgruntled Mr. Thompson at the gate.

His rush was in vain. The grey rag turned out to be alive and slipped behind the containers. Looking into the narrow space between the iron fence and the bins, the man saw a big grey cat, curled up, trembling with fear.

What on earth? he muttered. Why does our little courtyard attract such a mix of misfits? First a tiny puppy, then a pair of kittensthank heavens their owners rescued them. Now an adult cat gets dumped. Who would want such a hulking mouser? Surely hell end up a vagrant. Come on out, dont be shy.

The cat didnt even lift its head, tucking it deeper under its chest.

Come out, or the garbage lorry will arrive and crush you with its bins

The feline stayed as motionless as a statue, perched in an uncomfortable but, in its view, safe ostrichlike pose.

Deflated, Mr. Thompson moved on. His job was out in the open, and he still had to finish cleaning and head to the next square.

Blimey, what people the elderly man grumbled.

Thus the large grey cat, almost a purebred British Shorthair, found itself in a foreign yard, suddenly stripped of a roof and everything a pet normally enjoys, unlike the streetwise strays.

When the garbage truck finally rumbled by, the cat panicked, bolted from its hideout and sprinted into the courtyard. With nowhere else to hide, the poor creaturea sudden refugee dove into the grass beneath a hefty bench and hid, lost in its own melancholy thoughts.

In the cats mind everything had turned upside down. He couldnt fathom why hed ended up there or what to do next.

Deep down a tiny hope glimmered: perhaps someone would come back for him. Better to wait in this yard than be truly lost. So he settled on staying put, hoping his owners would return, lest they never find him again.

Mrs. Margaret Fletcher, who had seen her daughter Olivia off to marriage, now lived alone on the second floor of a typical fivestorey block. Olivia and her husband Ian lived in the same town and visited often.

They werent just mother and daughterthey were best friends. No secrets, no hidden grudges, just the sort of bond you rarely see even among the closest of relatives.

When residents spotted the neat, calm cat, they assumed he belonged to someone and was merely taking a stroll. Mrs. Fletcher did the same, admiring the large grey beauty as if it were a work of art.

When nobody was around, the cat climbed onto the benchnow abandoned with the arrival of autumnto get a better view and feel safe.

People hurried past, busy with their own affairs, barely noticing the dour bench dweller.

He spent the night there because there was nowhere else to go. Wandering far for shelter was risky; at any moment his owners might returnso he thought.

Food was scarce. Thanks to the diligent caretaker, the yard was tidy, leaving little to scavenge. The cat could only rely on what he found in the tip, but he had fierce competition: a gaggle of wellfed crows, proud as kings with sturdy beaks, always the first to swoop in.

Rummaging through rubbish, they kept a sharp eye on all sides. Try to get near, and youll get pecked, they seemed to warn. Even the occasional stray dog feared those birds, let alone a gaunt cat whose strength waned each day.

After a few weeks of street life, the cats oncerespectable appearance had deteriorated, making it clear to everyone that he was now a stray. Parents, fearing illness or scratches, strictly forbade their children from approaching.

Despite opposition from those who didnt want feral animals in the courtyard, a few residents quietly fed the starving feline. Mrs. Fletcher was among them.

Thus the cat made the bench his home. Autumn took full charge, drenching the neighbourhood in prolonged, dreary rain, turning everything a muted grey.

The cats mood matched the weather perfectly. He felt utterly despondent, convinced no one would ever come back for him

When the caretaker relayed the tale of the abandoned cat, a compassionate young woman named Sophie took notice. She had often found responsible owners for streetwise strays.

Sophie tried to place the cat in a winter home, but her efforts were in vain. People, for various reasons, hesitated to adopt a stray dumped by unknown owners, and no amount of pleading helped.

After consulting family, Sophie hesitated, and Mrs. Fletcher, fearing she couldnt handle a fullgrown cat, backed out.

She felt genuine pity for the wanderer, yet could not take on such responsibility. Unbeknownst to her, the cat, overcoming its fear each evening, would climb the fire escape by her balcony and perch in the attached flower box, peering into the kitchen window, inhaling the tempting aromas and the warm domestic glow he so dearly missed.

Two months of homeless existence passed. Nights grew colder, and the damp, desperate cat resigned himself to his fate, lingering on the bench.

During the November holidays, Olivia and Ian arrived at Mrs. Fletchers flat for a nightstay. She spent the whole day bustling in the kitchenroasting a joint, preparing salads, baking a pie, and setting the table. They lingered over food and conversation well into the evening.

Its raining again, and theyre saying snows on the way by morning, Olivia remarked.

Mrs. Fletcher placed a teacup on the table, drew the curtains, and let out a tiny sigh, hands clasped over her chest. The frightened grey cat stared straight at her.

In a heartbeat the cat leapt back, nearly slipping down the slick, wet railing.

Whats the matter, mum? Why are you so startled?

Oh dear, theres a cat on the balcony that always sits on that bench. Hes scared too. What if he falls?

How did he get up there?

They stepped onto the balcony and saw the cat huddled on the bench, shaking its wet fur, trying to conserve the last bits of warmth it had gathered from the open window.

I get it. He climbed the fire escape, Ian said.

Brave little fellow. We should give him something to eat.

They all shivered in the damp air, so they turned on the kettle. Mrs. Fletcher, lost in thought, sat at the table while Olivia poured tea for everyone.

Mum, Ive got a slice of cake with a rose on top, just how you like it. Have some tea while its hot, Olivia said.

Mrs. Fletcher drew the curtains back, tears glistening, and stared out the window.

No, I cant keep doing this, she whispered.

She grabbed a piece of roast beef and headed for the hallway.

Im going to fetch him, she declared, pulling on an old coat.

The cat didnt resist in her arms; trembling with a mix of fear and surprise, it turned back into a limp grey sack of fur with floppy paws. Holding the shivering stray close, Mrs. Fletcher carried him inside.

No one ever asked Mrs. Fletcher why she did it. They didnt need to, for she was the only resident who acted humanely.

The weary cat spent a week sleeping by the hot radiator. Food was nice, but the comforting domestic heat mattered far more. The new owner named him Percy, giving him the grand middle name of Bartholomew.

Percy, contrary to expectations, turned out to be a proper gentlemanpolite, cultured, and impeccably behaved. If there ever were a perfect cat, it would be Percy Bartholomew himself. The amiable, cultured feline became a fullfledged family member and a beloved fixture.

Sometimes his mistress jokes:

Percy Bartholomew, what crimes did you commit to be cast out onto that bench?

Percy, having roamed for months, remains silent. He lacks human speech, and even if he could talk, he probably wouldnt know the answer himself.

Percy has now lived in Mrs. Fletchers cosy home for nearly two years. Hes wellfed, petted, and thoroughly content. Yet, whenever he hears raised voices, the old fear from his former domestic life resurfaces, and the large, strong cat curls up on the floor, seeking to hide.

Everyone who knows the big grey cat can only guess. Why was the perfect cat Percy thrown out in the first place?