A Christmas Short Story

It was just before midnight on Christmas Eve when I heard the meowing outside. It sounded really close so I got out of bed wondering if Father Christmas had arrived with a feline gift for me — I’m joking.

I switched on the light, put on my dressing gown and slippers, and went to the door. It was only open a crack when the cat shot in. It looked bedraggled; its grey fur was dripping wet. The first thought that came into my head was to get the poor thing warm and dry. It followed me into the bathroom where the towels were kept. I picked up the cat and wrapped a bath towel around it. “Poor thing. You’ll soon be comfy,” I told him. He sat on my lap in front of the electric fire and, with the Christmas tree lights twinkling behind us, I kept talking to reassure him.

“It’s been two months since I lost my cat, Archie, from old age,” I said. “Matthew — he’s my son — has told me I’m too old to have another cat. Do you know what he said? ‘You’re no spring chicken.’
I was about to tell him I’d never been a chicken at any stage of my life but he carried on. ‘What would happen if the cat outlived you?’ I was about to tell him that was the sort of thing I’d arrange if I had another cat, and anyway I’m fitter than he is, but I didn’t get a chance. I know he means well but he can go on a bit.”

The cat gazed at me with his lovely blue eyes. He looked familiar. He also looked as if he was taking in every word I said. I half expected him to answer me. Of course, I know cats don’t talk. I’m not losing my marbles.

It was past one o’clock and the stray cat was not only warm and dry but had been fed. It was lucky I’d never thrown out Archie’s food or toys, or anything else that had belonged to him. Like me, the mystery cat was falling asleep. He looked much better and purred loudly as I carried him into the bedroom. He made himself comfortable, nestling beside me, paws on my arm. He was soon fast asleep. I wasn’t far behind.

When I woke, I realised it must have all been a dream. There was no cat on the bed. There was no cat in the room and the door was firmly shut. I swear I hadn’t been at the sherry. It may sound silly but I had to wipe my eyes, blow my nose, and give myself a good talking to as I got dressed.

It was my first Christmas Day alone. No kids, no company, and now, no cat. It was my own fault. I’d had invitations. Matthew and his wife, Jen, were off to New Zealand for Christmas and New Year so my daughter, Cheryl, said I could go to her but it’s such a long journey. Too far in the middle of winter. I didn’t want to upset her so I told her that my friend, May Hodges, had asked me to spend a few days with her. Then May actually asked me to go to her’s so I told her I was off to Cheryl’s. Back then, the thought of being on my own hadn’t bothered me. It’s not as if I believed in the magic of Christmas. I’d given that up once the kids had given up believing in Santa.

I opened the bedroom curtains. The sunshine was weak but it was there. No snow. No white Christmas. No magic. Even the grass looked dry so a cat soaked from being out in the rain was definitely a dream. They say you dream about things you want, or things you worry about. I’d wanted a cat and last night, at midnight, I thought my dream had come true. It had all seemed so real.

Sitting back on the bed, I went over what had happened. It was late on Christmas Eve when I’d changed my mind and decided to put up the Christmas tree. It was artificial and ancient but it didn’t seem fair to leave it at the back of the understairs cupboard so I decided to give it its once-a-year airing.

It was when I was putting on the ornaments that I got upset. Among the shiny glass baubles and fake candles there were a lot of cats. Friends and family had given them to me over the years. There was a little cardboard cut-out one, painted orange with string for whiskers. Matthew had made it at school. Cheryl had made one too. Hers was painted black and had a red ribbon around its neck. There were wooden ones, felt ones, and shop bought ones. More than a dozen in all. And there was the tiny, soft grey wool one I’d knitted and stitched blue eyes on.

Once the tree was finished, I had some hot chocolate and must have gone to bed and dreamed about the cat coming to the door. It suddenly dawned on me that was why I’d recognised the dream cat. Yes, that was it. It was my knitted one. Weird dream solved.

When I went into the living room the tree lights were on. They must have been on all night, yet I was sure I’d switched them off. I’d placed the few presents I’d received at the bottom of the tree and as I looked at them, my heart started to thump. The grey cat, the one from nowhere, the one from my supposed dream, was curled up beneath the tree
just as if he was a gift for me.
A strand of tinsel had fallen on to his back.

“You’re real.” I sounded as excited as any child who’d discovered Father Christmas had delivered exactly what they’d asked for. The cat blinked, stretched, and stood up. He walked over to me and wrapped himself around my legs. I lifted him up and picked off the tinsel from his back. As he purred, I told him: “I can’t keep calling you Cat. I’ll call you Tinsel. Would you like that?”

His purr grew louder and that’s when I noticed something else. The grey knitted cat wasn’t on the tree. It wasn’t under the tree either and, after a thorough search, I didn’t find it anywhere in the room. Another mystery to add to how did Tinsel get through my closed bedroom door.

Tinsel and I spent the day together. He watched me open my presents. A fluffy dressing gown from Matthew, an electric blanket from Cheryl, and a lovely diary from May. Tinsel dined on bits of turkey breast and played with Archie’s toys. He went out a couple of times while I waited, hoping he would return. My fingers only got uncrossed when I heard him meowing at the door.

It couldn’t last. I knew that. But until then we’d enjoy each other’s company. “I’m going to have to find your owner once Christmas is over. No collar.No tag. Perhaps you’re microchipped. The v.e.t. will know. You can’t spell, can you?”

He sat on my lap as I watched television and sipped at egg-nog. It was late when I got up to go to bed. Almost midnight. Tinsel wanted to be let out and, as he walked out of the door, he turned to look back at me.

“I’ll give him ten minutes,” I thought. But half an hour later he hadn’t returned. I peered down the street. There was no sign of him. When I went back inside to turn off the lights on the tree, the grey knitted cat with the blue eyes was dangling from a low branch. That’s when I knew Tinsel wasn’t coming back.

★★★★★★★★★★

It was early January when I answered the door to find a woman holding a grey cat in her arms. A grey cat with blue eyes.

“Tinsel.” It came out as a whisper. The cat looked up at me.

“We live in the next street,” said the woman, “but we’re moving and we can’t take the cat. We’re looking for a good home for him and May Hodges said you might like him.”

“Oh, I would,” I said. “What’s his name?”

“Bluey,” she said. “Because of his eyes.”

“Tell me, did he happen to go missing over Christmas?”

“No, he was at home all day.” She passed the cat to me.

Once she’d gone, I checked him over. He looked exactly like Tinsel, but he couldn’t be, could he? Magic doesn’t really happen at Christmas or any other time — does it?