Surprisingly Cuddly

Junior, 3rd prize

Evan McDonagh
St Patrick’s Comprehensive School, Shannon

IT was a fine autumn’s day, and I was strolling through an old, nearly empty London street. It wasn’t the most lavishly decorated street in the world – I suppose practicality was more valued at the time than style, with its rows of terraced houses on either side. Who knew how many people could have been crowded into those rows? Well, I suppose whoever designed the houses knew. And I guess whoever lived there at the time would have some idea… And of course, it’s the government’s job to know this kind of thing… But none the less, I stand by my rhetorical question!
As I strode by the marvellous works of, well… city planning, an old, ragged stray cat wandered out from an alley. The world had not been kind to this little cat. It seemed half blind, and shuffled around with his head nearly touching the ground, sniffing about with his little pink nose. Most of his hair had fallen from his long tail. He was extremely thin, though you couldn’t quite see his ribs, but he was much, much thinner than a healthy cat should be. His tiny paws also seemed to be losing their hair. In fact, he seemed to be leaving a trail of hair wherever he went.
It then dawned on me, that if I did nothing about it, this small, helpless creature would probably soon die. I got down on one knee and started whistling, beckoning the cat over to me, removing my jacket as I did so. He listened attentively for a moment, before shuffling over, slowly and cautiously. I lay my jacket on the ground and the cat paused for a moment, and lay on top of it. I lifted him up and held him in my arms for a moment, expecting him to start hissing and kicking. But he didn’t budge. He lay there, perfectly still. His eyes closed. He had already fallen asleep.
And so I left the street, strolling past all the rows of houses, and returned to my house. I lived alone, so there were no shouts or screams of “Why’d you bring that filthy thing into my house”, and decided that, though it may be difficult, I would give the cat a bath. I went upstairs and soon had a full bath of hot water. I prodded the cat until it awoke; no sense in accidentally drowning it in its sleep. I lifted him up, and prepared to drop him into the water, the one action that would make my new found pet hate me for the remainder of his life. I prepared for the splashing and screeching, and dropped him in. And what next? Nothing. Nothing but the soft sound of him paddling about with his two front feet.
Well I got over the surprise of that surprisingly quickly, and sat there for awhile, watching to make sure he didn’t drown. He was being bathed in nothing but water; all my soaps were supposed to be non-toxic to humans, but there was no guarantee about cats. When I deemed him clean enough, when the bath water had turned a shade of murky brown, I pulled him from the bath and wiped him down with a warm towel, before carrying him down the stairs into the kitchen.
I then elected to feed him, realizing that it may have been smarter to feed the starving cat before bathing him. Of course, I had no cat food, so had to simply feed him stuff from my fridge. Into his dish I threw some paté, old bacon, sardines, a piece of dried mackerel, some slices of ham and a hunk of red cheddar. To my surprise, he dived in straight for the cheddar, leaving the sardines till very last. Any other cat would have gone the other way round, and this starving little stray should have just dived straight in and devoured everything in one go.
Well, nothing really interesting occurred during the night, and when morning came, I decided to bring the cat to the restaurant I worked at. It seemed reasonable, he could keep the customers company and after all, after his bath he was probably cleaner than most of the chefs, especially Barry and his hygiene philosophy of “You’ll get used to it”.
Well, those at the restaurant simply adored this cat. He sat comfortingly in the laps of the elderly, he entertained the middle-aged and played (well, sat with) the children. He even gave a bit more company to the chefs. Most surprising of all, even the typically cold-hearted manager found a little enjoyment out of this cat’s company. As the day went on, the cat would change his position in the restaurant. This greatly amused the customers, who saw that he had moved but never actually saw him moving. Our profits soared while the cat was there, probably because people were telling friends to come and see this very strange looking cat.
Over about a month there was no change in the appearance of the cat. I suppose his hair gained a little bit more colour, and he looked more nourished, but he gained absolutely no weight. His nose remained small and pink, forever sniffing the ground in front of him. His paws too, remained absolutely tiny. His tail remained bald all through the month but at least he stopped shedding.
And so the vet asked me to get a blood sample for tests, which I did. I doubt he even noticed me putting the needle in him. It wasn’t long before, while at the restaurant, I got the call from the vet.
I got the shock of my life when it turned out, that my favourite cat was in fact a very large, though adorably cuddly, rat. But I wasn’t nearly as surprised as the health inspector.