Alfie the Doorstep Cat. Rachel Wells
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I had discovered that I could rely on myself, but that didn’t suit a cat like me. I didn’t want to be feral, and fighting. I wanted to be on someone’s lap, or a warm blanket, being fed out of tins and given milk and affection. That was the kind of cat I was; I couldn’t change that, and I really didn’t want to.
The cold, lonely nights of the past few months were still fresh in my mind: the fear that had lived with me every minute; the hunger; the exhaustion. It wasn’t something I would ever be able to face again, and it wasn’t something I would ever forget. I needed a family, I needed love and I needed security. It was all I wanted, yearned for, and I would never ask for anything more than that.
As the sun began to disappear, I strolled back. I thought about how funny life could be. I was so lonely when Agnes died, it made me ill. I pined for her terribly and my owner took me to the dreaded vet. I had stopped eating and relieving myself, and Kathy, the vet, said that I’d given myself a bladder infection. She said it was due to grief, as she prodded and poked around. Margaret had seemed surprised; she hadn’t thought that cats felt emotions like humans. Maybe it wasn’t exactly the same, but it was pretty bad. I was mourning Agnes, and it had made me ill. And Claire was mourning Steve, the man in the suit, and Jonathan was mourning something called ‘Singapore’. I saw the grief in them as I had felt it myself. So I decided I would be there for them, as any decent cat would be.
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