The Good Stuff
Short Story
Vanessa
by Margaret Dakin
Length: 803 words

Vanessa

I was living on the streets when he found me – dirty, scruffy, half-starved – eating out of dustbins – sleeping where I could find a warm corner.

I don’t know what he was doing in that poorly lit alley on that dark night but it was to my advantage because he felt sorry for me and took me home with him.

Don’t get the wrong idea – he’s an honourable man. Didn’t expect anything from me, except companionship, and not even that at first. He just wanted to look after me, feed me up, and get me back on my feet.

I may have been down and out but, in my own defence I must say, I never did have much of a chance in life – never knew my father, and my mother was no better than she should be – always bringing home some Tom, Dick or Harry. Eventually she ran off with one of them when I was still pretty young. Me and the others were left to our own devices, and we soon split up, the better to eke out a living in those bleak, shadowy lanes where we found ourselves.

But I was determined that no one would get the better of me. I fought anyone who tried - tooth and nail – and got a few bloody scratches myself in return. Yes, I’m the first to admit I’m not a pretty sight – a scar on my nose and a couple of missing teeth. I stood up to everything that came my way. When he first approached me, I believe I backed away from him, hissing and spitting all the foul sounds I had learnt. That must be why he always called me Vanessa - and that’ll do me. Now I can’t even remember if I ever had any other name; can hardly remember at all that old life before he took me into his home.

Turned out he was getting over some woman that first night and he’d been out on the tiles, doing a pub crawl, and just went into that foul alleyway to have a piss. Anyway – lucky for me.

He’s not really a drinking man. Lives quietly and soberly and goes off to work Monday to Friday. Has a can or two if he’s mowing the grass on the weekend, that’s all. We’ve slipped into a pretty comfortable routine – just spend the evenings together with a hot drink and a bit of TV. He has his favourite chair and I just sit close and enjoy his warmth. He always chooses the programs – mostly sport, current affairs, crime stories; you know the stuff men like – but I don’t care. It’s all the same to me.

He sometimes asks me what I’ve been doing with myself during the day, but he doesn’t seem to mind that I’m not specific. I must admit I’m pretty lazy. I clean the dishes, wander around in the garden a bit, looking at the birds and butterflies, take a nap, fix my nails. That’s my life.

But I really only come to life when he gets home, and he seems to be glad to find me there – talks to me, tells me all the day’s news. I take an interest but I’ve never been good with words. Wish I could contribute more.

At one stage he started staying out late two or three times a week. I think he was seeing some woman and I showed my disapproval. When he came in I was standoffish and temperamental. If the truth be known, I was a bit jealous. Anyway, that phase soon passed and we’ve both settled down lately. Well, we’re both getting older and slower.

But it was after that episode that I decided to try and get closer to him. I would come up behind him as he sat in his chair and drape myself around his shoulders. Sometimes as we sat there together I would tentatively reach out and softly touch his hand. Then he would smile and gently stroke my head, which was all we both needed I suppose.

At night I took to leaving my bed and hopping in beside him. I’d lie there listening to the gentle snoring coming from his side of the bed and sometimes I’d reach out and give him a bit of a nudge; but it didn’t really bother me. I just wished I had the words to let him know of my unconditional love. But I think he knows.

When we’re sitting together at night and he’s stroking my head and I’m softly touching his hand, I stretch and yawn and I feel my green eyes narrowing. Then I literally purr with pleasure and my tail starts slowly to swish back and forth which, contrary to common belief, is not an indication that a cat is angry.

 
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Easton, Timothy
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