I have lived here 10 years. There’s this tabby longhair that waits for people as they go down the alley that connects the estate to the local Spar. He is always sat on this one high wall that stops people seeing all the shit in the gardens of the people who live behind it. He doesn’t age. Everyone has a different set idea in their head where he lives. It’s at number 42. It’s at number 9. Fiona at the Gables etc. But he doesn’t live anywhere. There’s domesticated wild cats and then there’s wild domestic cats like this guy. Always in reasonable nick. He doesn’t eat. Doesn’t need to. Won’t let you stroke him. He’s been granted eternal life rather than the usual white coated accompaniment over the rainbow bridge. That’s why he’s asleep on that wall so much. Gonna be awake till it’s all over. I don’t know who grants these cats immortality but I tell you there’s one in every other street. Maybe it’s a punishment. Something they did in a previous life. Maybe they were cruel to a cat one time and now they get to be one forever. Out in all weathers. Dodging traffic, getting bored. That’s some sentence that, forever. Some even have one of those little nametags with a name and an owner’s number. The number probably puts you through to the afterlife. Afterlife admin.
Say you rang and said “I found this cat.” And this weird voice tells you that they don’t care. And you look all bemused at the disconnected call in your hand. The wind picks up, the cat comes towards you as if to let you stroke it. Something in your head says you better not. You better not do that at all.
Paul Jenkins is a short story writer based in South Wales. He was a contributing editor to the 24 Stories collection for the victims of Grenfell Tower in 2018 and his debut collection, A Cure For Love, was published by Typewriter Press in 2020. When he isn't writing sad stories, he can be found on Twitter (X) as @fourfoot.
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