THE ORDINARY TABBY CAT. SHE BECAME MY FRIEND
She sat at the bus stop—just a plain grey tabby, perched on a raised bit of pavement, her paws tucked neatly beneath her, tail draped over them like a blanket.
Buses rushed past, spraying puddles in their wake, disgorging passengers who hurried by, hoods pulled up against the drizzle. They barely glanced at the cat as they sidestepped her, their expressions indifferent.
Something about her caught my eye, and I slowed my pace. There was a quiet dignity in her, an almost regal air. Sensing my gaze, she turned her head and looked straight at me—now I couldn’t walk away. Ears twitching slightly, she rose and stepped towards me, deliberate and unhurried.
We moved closer—the cat, padding across the wet tarmac as if it were polished marble, and me, a woman in rain-splattered shoes, rushing to another day at work.
Another day at the warehouse, where shouting and swearing were the only ways to get the lads to shift the stock. Otherwise, the whole shift would dissolve into smoke breaks and idle chatter.
«Are you hungry?» I asked her.
The faintest flick of her tail told me I’d guessed right.
«Come on, then.»
She dipped her head—actually nodded, her gaze steady and knowing. She followed just behind me, keeping perfect distance, as if she’d measured it.
The little bakery had nothing with meat, so I bought a cheese pasty instead. Crumpling the wrapper open, I stepped back, and she moved in.
The way she ate! This ordinary tabby had better manners than half the gentry. Where did she learn that? When she’d licked up the last crumbs, she did something unexpected—she brushed against my leg, just once, then retreated just as smoothly, leaving me standing there, watching her go.
I was late for work. But that hardly mattered compared to the strange warmth stirring somewhere deep inside, something I couldn’t yet name.
The next morning, I left early—odd how quickly I got ready. She was waiting.
We didn’t go to the bakery this time; I’d brought leftover beef from last night’s dinner. And then she *led* me—with a glance, a tilt of her body, a silent command I didn’t dare refuse.
Through thickets, under dripping branches, across long, dew-heavy grass. I was soaked by the time we pushed through the overgrown path, but she stayed dry—every drop rolled right off her sleek fur, never penetrating.
And then I saw them. Three grey kittens, eyes still cloudy from recent birth, huddled together at the base of a crumbling garden shed. The tabby stood beside them, proud, presenting them to me—plump, impossibly clean.
I took a step forward, but she blocked me. So I held out my hand instead. She pressed her head into my palm and held still. I did too, feeling nothing but the whisper of silken fur. Then reality snapped back—I had to get to work.
At the warehouse, my eyes kept searching for something—anything—to carry them home. I found it: a sturdy cardboard box, just the right size.
The tabby seemed to know I’d return. She greeted me with tiny signals—a flick of an ear, the curl of her tail, the arch of her back. I understood her perfectly.
Inside the flat, she hesitated only a second before showing me where to place the kittens. After that, they barely made a sound—just ate and slept, while she moved with the same quiet grace.
And I learned from her. Learned how silence could speak louder than words. That what I’d once achieved with shouting could be done with just a look.
We became friends. Yes, *friends*. I wasn’t her owner—not really. She was grateful to me, and I to her. That ordinary grey tabby was wiser than anyone I’d ever known.
Now, at the warehouse, there’s no shouting. A tilt of my head, a glance—and the lads jump to it, working harder than ever.
Now, when irritation bubbles up, I pull out my phone and look at the photo. The photo of a plain grey tabby, watching me, her kittens curled against her. The anger fades, replaced by warmth.
And if I’m home? I don’t need the phone. In our house, the cat and her kittens are always with me.
