Journey to a Golden Heart

This story is about Misty, my Twitter Friend (@MaureenElis)

Mysterious Visitor

It was one of those days when I, as a cat, felt aimless. The outside wasn't icy, but the wind raged, waging war on the fallen leaves, causing them to whirl and dance before descending again. Not the right time to sit on the terrace behind my desk. Besides, I didn't feel inspired to write.

 Amidst my boredom, a voice suddenly beckoned from outside,

"Freddy, Freddy, are you home?"

Who could that be? Mum was away, so I went to the hallway to see. A tabby kitty was at the front door, scratching the glass.

At first, I thought it was Satine, the cat Mum and I had rescued a few years ago, but it was unlikely as she never agreed to come inside. Maybe she came to ask for dinner, and I was about to shoo her away — she had already eaten at least five times that day, and it wasn't yet dinner time.

Approaching closer, I noticed it was an unknown cat.

"Freddy," the visitor called again. "Open the door! I've come to tell you a story. A Christmas story."

What a pleasant coincidence! I needed a story for my Christmas newsletter!

Without hesitation, I jumped on the door handle. Thankfully, the door was unlocked. A stunning tabby girl dashed in, shivering from the wind outside.

"Oh, hi, Freddy!" she greeted, attempting to embrace and peck me. However, I stepped back. I don't let strangers get too familiar; what would my friends think?

"It's so cold out!" she lamented, starting to lick her fur to warm herself.

"You must have travelled quite a distance," I remarked. "Let's go to the kitchen and have some tea."

"Oh, Freddy, I'd prefer warm milk, if that's okay. With some whipped cream and sprinkled with chocolate chips."

Her request was rather intricate. Cooking was not my strong suit. Once in the kitchen, I did my best, and she tried to assist. Ultimately, we had a minor spill, mostly chocolate chips, but I figured Mum would handle it later.

We settled on the sofa in the living room, our cups filled with warm milk topped with whipped cream and a plate full of my favourite cat biscuits beside us. I allowed her to snuggle in my cherished mohair blanket so she could warm up. I was instantly fond of her. She seemed genuinely delighted to be here, constantly purring and expressing gratitude.

Amid our indulgence, I finally inquired, "Who are you, what's your name, and where do you hail from?" I scrutinised her. Had I encountered her before? And where?

"Freddy," my visitor responded, "I'll reveal my name, but only after I finish the story."

She was quite the enigma! She savoured the last bits of cream from her lips and started her narration.

"I don't know where I was born or who my parents were. My earliest memory is of the bitter cold that made me shiver and ache. I tried to open my eyes, but they'd frozen shut. I felt slimy, sharp, and unpleasant textures under my cold paws. I started to cry, though I barely had a voice; I was very tiny.

However, someone heard me.

'Look, Betty, there's a kitten in the waste bin!' said a voice close to me. Then, a hand gently lifted me, enveloping me in its warmth. I tried to open my eyes again and faintly saw two figures: a tall one and a smaller one.

'Oh, Mum, can we take it home? The smaller one, later known to me as Betty asked.

'We need to take it to the vet first, poor thing,' the mother replied. 'You know that we can't keep her - your father is allergic to cats.'

Yet they kept me – for a time. Life was joyful, except for those visits to the not-so-friendly man they called the vet. My eyes took ages to heal and were perpetually teary. Still, life was carefree; games, cuddles, and food were always abundant.

I often heard I'd be sent to 'the shelter' once I recovered because my fur made Betty's father sneeze. I hardly remember seeing him.

What was this 'shelter'? A new playground? A place brimming with treats and toys? They said I'd meet many other cats to play and converse with. It sounded exciting, but I was content at Betty's home and would've stayed indefinitely.

However, one day, while Betty was at school, her mother placed me in a carrier and drove me somewhere. I assumed it was another vet visit, but this trip felt much longer.

The car halted in front of a large building. I recognised it as soon as we entered – it couldn't be but the famous shelter. Even though I couldn't see the other cats, their meows echoed from all directions. Undoubtedly, Betty's mum had brought me here for a delightful meeting with other felines. I assumed we'd share a brief chat, maybe even a tea party, and then head home.

But then, something unexpected happened. A woman led me down a corridor lined with cages housing other cats. Where was Betty's mum? This new person locked me in a spacious cage at the end of the hall and departed silently. What a dull place! Nothing to do with a tea room!

Instead of plush seating or tea tables, there was merely a cushion occupied by a sleeping tabby. She seemed oblivious to my presence.

I approached and nudged her gently, 'Excuse me, ma'am, when is tea served here?'

It took a few nudges before she stirred. She appeared old and weary.

'Tea? Oh, dear child, you've just arrived, haven't you? If you're thirsty, there's water in the corner, and feel free to eat those cat biscuits; they're not to my liking.'

Talk about a tearoom! The service was dreadful here. Betty and I had played 'tea time' at home, which always included milk, cream, cakes, and treats!

Instantly, I decided I couldn't stay. I yearned to go home, play with Betty, and get cuddles. I had no interest in socialising with these noisy cats.

As days turned into weeks, I got increasingly impatient. I persistently called out for Betty's mother. Every approaching footstep sent my heart racing with hope that she'd come to retrieve me. Yet, she never came.

Occasionally, visitors would pause at our cage, glancing between the elderly cat and me, then continue onwards. Sometimes, some cage would open, and a feline would be handed to a waiting visitor.

'Adopted,' my cage mate would comment. She said she'd been at the shelter for years, forever hoping her turn would come. Her name was Dollie, and she was gentle with me, often grooming me and trying to comfort me.

'One way to cope is by reading,' Dollie suggested one day.

I was dazed. How could I read? There were no books in our cage. Besides, I'd never learned.

Dollie explained, 'We each have a book of dreams within us. You can immerse yourself in its wonders and live out your dreams whenever you wish.'

But, Freddy, it didn't work for me. In my dream book, all I saw was Betty. Imagining being with her again only intensified my sorrow.

Then, one day, someone lingered by our cage. Dollie nudged me, 'Try to look lovely; someone is observing you!'

And I did, Freddy! I was so desperate by then; I would've gone with anyone offering an escape. It's impossible to fathom the despair of perpetual confinement.

The young man who chose me took me to his tiny flat, high in a building on a bustling street. He named me 'Chat' – I think it means cat in French. His flat was a mess, Freddy. Books littered the floor, desk, and even the bed. And when it wasn't books, it was dishes. I quickly made myself at home, pushing some books off the sofa and heading to the kitchen to address the plethora of dishes awaiting a good lick.

My new dad, Frank, lived a bohemian lifestyle. By day, he was gone – 'off to uni', he'd say. I'd spend those hours on the tiny balcony, chatting with pigeons. But come evening, Frank would return, often bringing friends. The early part of these evenings was pleasant, as they'd dote on me – especially the girls. However, as the hours wore on, the overwhelming scent of alcohol and blaring music would drive me under the bed until they departed.

Yet, our moments alone were beautiful. Frank truly loved me, and I adored him in return. Sadly, this happiness was fleeting. Frank decided to study abroad, and I returned to the shelter again. Reunited in the same cage with Dollie, it felt like I was back to my family.

The Lost Paradise

After waiting for an eternity, a gentle old lady decided I was to be hers. Her home was a dream – a sprawling house with a majestic staircase that I relished racing up and down. And the garden! Birds, butterflies, bees, and even the occasional visit from neighbouring cats. If there's a feline heaven, it had to be this."

My visitor paused, seemingly lost in her memories. I reached out, touching her gently, and she continued her tale.

"I can't pinpoint how long this idyllic life lasted - it felt like years. But then calamity struck. I could sense the tension as the humans packed things into boxes. I learned they were moving and that I couldn't go with them.

Third Return

And so, for the third time, I was at the shelter. My dear friend Dollie was still there, older and frailer. But her wisdom remained unchanged.

'Open your dream book, little one!' she'd insist, still calling me 'little one' even though I was grown up.

My attempts at escaping into my dream world were futile. Memories of my beautiful garden would reduce me to tears. The shelter staff couldn't bear my sorrow and quickly found a new family for me.

To keep it brief, this family was a disaster. The situation became so dire that I escaped and returned to the shelter of my own choice."

"What? Why?" I gasped. "You loathed the shelter!"

An Unfair Treatment

Yes, Freddy, but being with Dollie at the shelter was leagues better than enduring that family. Their children were rowdy, pulling my tail and ears, and one even tried to burn my whiskers! Their dog was another terror. He'd play the victim whenever there was something thorn or broken, and they'd reprimand me. So, I resolved to head back to the shelter and chose my next human alone.

My departure was met with indifference; they deemed me 'unsuitable'. Back in my old cage, I noticed Dollie's absence. Had she crossed the rainbow bridge? My spirits fell until other cats shared the joyous news: Dollie had been adopted! I was glad for her; she no longer needed her dream book to find happiness.

She Arrived!

As for me, I felt deep down that my human Mum – the one who would love me unconditionally – would soon show up. She lived in my dream book; I knew her; I knew her footsteps, and I could recognise her voice among thousands – she was my true Mum.

But I waited an interminably long time. I soon became known as "the shelter cat." Yet, I remained unperturbed. Whenever potential adopters strolled in, I'd turn away, feigning sleep. I didn't want anyone to choose me but my Mum. My heart was set on only her. But why was she taking so long? Didn't she know I was here, waiting for her? I called her on nights when others were sleeping so my voice could freely cross space and time and reach her.

Then, one day, just before Christmas, a familiar rhythm of footsteps echoed. She walked gracefully, speaking to each cat in their cages, offering gentle words of comfort. My heart raced – she came for me, she was here! She would take me in her arms and carry me to my forever home!

But, Freddy, can you believe it? She walked right past my cage without a glance! In desperation, I let out a resounding meow, urging her to return. There was no way I was letting her leave without me.

And you know what? She heard me, understood my call, turned back, and came to my cage. And when the shelter staff unlatched the door, I leapt straight into her embrace.

'Here you are, Mummy dear!' I cried out, showering her with kisses and licks. And she returned the affection, murmuring, 'Mysterious little kitty. My Misty.'

My heart swelled with joy. My true Mum had finally found me, and I felt secure knowing that no adversity would separate us again. We fit into each other's lives and have been inseparable since. That's how I became Misty.

My Mum’s heart is pure gold. She's the kindest, most loving Mum, and I adore her.” 

Suddenly, it all became clear. My visitor was Misty, my Twitter friend. How had I not made the connection sooner?

"Was it really Christmas when your mum found you, Misty?" I inquired, trying to recall.

Smiling, she replied, "Oh, Freddy, every day feels like Christmas when you're happy. Does it really matter if it's March or September?"

I nodded in agreement and headed to the kitchen to fetch more cream.

Upon my return, she had vanished. I searched everywhere — inside the house, throughout the garden. But she was nowhere to be found.

Such a mysterious kitty! I sincerely hope she comes back soon to visit me. I've grown quite fond of her.

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