The Ginger Cat

The Ginger Cat

Joyce sat gazing at the blinking cursor, each flash marking another second gone without words. It taunted her: Retirement, and still you can’t start!

She had run out of excuses. For years, her full-time job had been the barrier between her and the novel she’d promised she would write one day. It had all been excuses. Now there was nothing but time — and nothing in her mind.

She had written three dreadful sentences that morning, erased the last, and shut the laptop with a snap.

No more excuses. No deadlines. No boss. Just you,” she muttered.

She muted the television, and the cabin sank into a silence that felt alive. No cars. No voices. Not even birdsong. Only the forest pressing against the glass, a hush so heavy it thumped in her skull.

Joyce stretched, poured coffee, and wandered onto the porch. Beyond the railings, the tree line loomed — tall conifers, shadows crouching between them. She thought she saw movement. Or was the darkness itself shifting? Her heart quickened. She imagined bears behind those trees — massive, shaggy shapes, waiting. The estate agent’s warning echoed in her mind: They’ll kill you if you disturb them. After just two weeks of “living the dream,” she was ready to give up.

That was when the rustling started. Leaves shifting. Branches swaying. Something was moving.

She froze, her coffee mug trembling. Bear? What a foolish way to die — barefoot on her porch, with a half-written sentence waiting inside.

Run inside. Lock the door. Pretend you heard nothing, a voice urged. Pretend you never wanted this.

But another voice — the one she tried hardest to ignore — whispered: You’ve run from everything difficult. Are you going to run from this, too?

The bushes parted, revealing two yellow eyes gleaming in the undergrowth. Joyce’s breath caught in her throat, and her legs felt like stone. The mug slipped from her hand, smashing on the boards with hot liquid spreading like a stain. Still, she could not move.

Out stepped… a ginger cat. Or something like a cat. Its ears were too sharp, its paws too large, and its claws far too long. Whatever it was, it wasn’t domestic.

Her heart pounded. Should she retreat indoors or face it?

Joyce surprised herself by sinking into the porch chair. The creature’s eyes held hers. She lifted her chin, steadied her breath, and whispered, “Well then. Here I am.”

The animal yawned — those teeth — and padded closer, stopping at the edge of the porch. Joyce nudged the broken mug shards aside, realising she was, despite herself, inviting it nearer—her first visitor.

“I really am lonely,” she thought. And despite its wildness, it has a pretty face.

The creature sat watching, then suddenly turned and slipped back into the bushes, leaving Joyce alone among the fragments.

Well, what on earth was that? Thank goodness it wasn’t a bear.

She hurried inside and reopened her laptop. Her fingers trembling, she typed: It began with a sound in the bushes…

That night, she dreamt of wild animals pounding at the cabin walls. By morning, her nerves were raw, but she returned to the laptop. The ginger cat had been the first living thing she’d seen in days. She wrote until her legs ached.

When she finally stepped outside for air, there it was again, beneath the red oak.

Joyce jumped, staying close to the doorframe. “Do you belong to a neighbour?”

The animal simply stared.

It’s my accent, she thought. Clearly not local.

The more she looked, the more uneasy she felt. Its ears were overly pointed, and its teeth were too large. Then it let out a thin, unsettling cry, like a baby. Joyce grew softer.

“You poor little thing. Hungry? Thirsty?”

She fetched goat’s milk from the pantry and returned to find it already inside, waiting as if it belonged.

Hours later, a pickup truck rattled up the drive. The animal had settled on the porch, licking its paws, one wary eye on Joyce.

“Ginger, go and greet your guest — he’s here for you, not me”.

A man in his fifties ascended the stairs. “Hi, I’m Robert, your neighbour. Sorry, I haven’t arrived sooner — short-staffed at the clinic. Is this the cat you called about?”

“I’m Joyce, and this is Ginger,” she said, offering her hand with a smile.

Robert crouched on the steps, observing the animal. “Not a cat. A young bobcat — which means his mother might be nearby.”

Joyce’s stomach turned. “So… not a stray?”

He gave a quick laugh. “Wild. And mothers can be dangerous — all muscle, all teeth. Seen anything moving near the treeline?”

She shook her head, suddenly realising how exposed the porch seemed.

Robert looked around. “You’ve made this place look homely. I always thought of it as a draughty hunting cabin.”

Joyce chuckled. “That’s because you’ve never tried cushions and a kettle.”

“Ah,” he said solemnly, “the secret weapons.”

“Let me get you a drink — hot or cold?” asked Joyce.

‘Coffee, if you have it’.

They sat down with coffee and biscuits.

“Shop-bought?” he teased.

Joyce shot him a look. “Baked them myself, thank you very much.”

He grinned. “Then I’ll pretend they’re the best I’ve ever had.”

By the time the mugs were empty, Joyce had revealed more than she meant — about her failed writing, her loneliness, her fear of the forest, and its inhabitants.

“Why not write about wildlife?” Robert said. “You’ve got a front-row seat.”

She shook her head. “I know nothing about it. I’m terrified — bears, bobcats… I’m starting to think I made a mistake coming here.”

Robert studied Ginger. “It’s rare for one this young to approach humans. My guess is the mother’s gone. Joyce, he needs to come to the Rescue Centre. He has to learn how to be wild.”

Joyce looked at him — her first visitor, and already she couldn’t imagine the porch without him. “I thought… maybe he could keep me company.”

Robert’s hand brushed her shoulder. “You need company. Just not this kind. He’s a predator, not a pet. Let me take him. You can visit — and if you want a cat, I’ve got plenty desperate for a home.”

She hesitated, then stepped aside. Robert slipped on his gloves and gently coaxed Ginger into the carrier. The young bobcat twisted once, meeting her gaze — wildness blazing, sharp and untameable. She swallowed hard, feeling both relief and a sense of loss.

As Robert lifted the carrier, she asked, “When’s that Coffee Morning you mentioned?”

Wednesday at nine. I’ll save you a seat. And let me know if you see the mother — we might reunite them.

He smiled widely, then called over the engine: “Some of the neighbours walk their dogs this way. You should come along sometime — it’s safer in company.”

Joyce raised an eyebrow. “And whose dog can I borrow?”

“You can borrow Boris, my golden retriever. Though honestly, I need the exercise as much as he does”.

As the pickup disappeared down the track, Joyce’s eyes stung. Already, the porch felt empty without wild Ginger, ready to bite the hand that tried to feed him.

For a woman who had intended to sit alone in a cabin, struggling to write a story, she was surprised at how quickly Robert’s visit had lifted her spirits.

The following week, Joyce pulled up outside the cabin with two rescues curled together on the passenger seat, purring. She carried them inside, their small bodies warm against her arms, and settled them by the fire.

The phone rang.

“So,” Robert’s voice came down the line, warm and amused, “are your lodgers behaving?”

Joyce looked at the cats and laughed. “Well, considering I was about to be eaten by bears, this is much better.” Robert chuckled.

“Come over and see them for yourself — I’ll even share my biscuits.”

Still smiling, Joyce stroked the cats behind their ears and whispered, “Welcome home.” Then she opened her laptop, her fingers steady this time. It began with a sound in the bushes…