The Return from Exile
In a cramped flat on the outskirts of York, where the wind howled through the old window frames, a loud scraping echoed through the rooms. “That beast! He’ll break the door down!” muttered Victor, tearing himself away from the morning task of changing nappies. Barefoot, he padded over to the crib where little Arthur blew bubbles and giggled happily. Satisfied that his son was safe, Victor made his way to the kitchen door, behind which the cat, Baron, was causing a ruckus.
Freed at last, Baron gave a disdainful sniff before darting toward the crib like an arrow. Eleanor, Victor’s wife, flinched and tried to rise, but her husband stopped her. “Wait—let’s see what he does. There’s no need to fret!” True enough, the cat did nothing alarming—only stared at the baby, as if trying to understand what new creature had invaded his domain. Then, carefully, he stretched out a paw, claws tucked away. Victor noticed, but Eleanor panicked. “Vic, he can’t stay! He’s a danger to Arthur!”
“Ellie, what are you on about? Baron’s been like a son to us, even if he’s a handful. We spoiled him ourselves!” Victor argued, but his words fell on deaf ears. Eleanor, gripped by maternal instinct, saw only menace in the cat. “Look how he’s watching him! He wants to get at the baby! Get rid of him—shelter, anywhere!” she insisted, trembling. Half an hour later, Victor, dark as a storm cloud, caught Baron by his food bowl, stuffed him into a carrier, and slammed the door behind him. Eleanor, clutching Arthur, watched from the window as the car carrying her husband and the cat splashed through the muddy snow and disappeared around the corner.
Victor did not return until nightfall. He had spent the day at a friend’s country house, trying to convince Baron that his new home was better—mice to chase, open grounds, no dogs. But the cat, ears flattened like helicopter blades from the first moment, made it clear he trusted not a word of it. Twice he locked eyes with Victor, leaving the man’s chest cold, and let out a long, mournful *”Mrrrow?”* When Victor left, Baron didn’t even follow him to the door—only those green eyes seemed to cry out, *”What about me? Am I not family?”*
The next evening, Peter, the friend who owned the house, called. “Vic, the cat’s gone. Found a hole in the fence. Tracks lead toward the motorway, heading back to the city.” Twenty miles, two busy roads, villages teeming with strays and half-wild dogs. Baron, raised indoors all his life, stood no chance. Victor cursed under his breath. He knew Eleanor wasn’t to blame in her state of new-mother madness. Their tiny flat had no space to separate the cat, and Baron, with his need for control, would never have tolerated confinement. Still, guilt gnawed at him.
Life moved on. May brought blossoming gardens; summer arrived in stifling heat and drifting willow-seed fluff. Arthur learned to sit up and soon crawled eagerly around his playpen. Then, on one sweltering July afternoon, the front door shuddered with odd, wet thumps, as if someone were striking it with a sodden sack. “Vic, see who’s there!” Eleanor called from the bedroom. Victor, fiddling on the balcony, opened the door on the chain—and froze. Through the gap slid something gaunt, filthy, its fur matted. It bolted straight for Arthur’s playpen.
Eleanor gasped, dropping her teacup when she recognised Baron. The cat, skin and bones now, planted his hind paws, braced his front paws against the playpen rail, and rumbled like an ancient tractor. “Baron…” Her voice broke as tears welled up. “You scoundrel!” Victor scooped the cat into his arms, checking him over. He was whole, though grimy as a chimney sweep. Without a word, they rushed him to the bath. Baron needed saving from filth and fleas.
What should have been a peaceful Sunday turned into chaos. The cat was bathed, dried, fed. Victor dashed to the shops for proper food, because Baron—once a fussy eater—snatched a crust of brown bread off the table and wolfed it in seconds. He returned with the finest whiskas, while Eleanor sent texts: *”Baron’s playing with Arthur! He’s purring, Vic—louder than ever! He remembers the litter box!”* Victor drove home, heart singing—their family was whole again: two grown-ups, their “human kitten” Arthur, and his whiskered guardian Baron, who, when near the baby, seemed to retract his claws by some unspoken rule.
Baron became Arthur’s most vigilant protector. He even hissed at visiting grandparents if they hovered too close. Relatives who once turned up their noses at the cat now mused about getting one themselves. And Eleanor bloomed. The guilt that had gnawed at her since Baron’s banishment faded. She knew now: life wasn’t quite right without him.