No Fixed Abode
At first I though Sam was sleeping when I found him lying under the hedge on that bright winters morning. But he was quite dead. Poor old chap I said to myself. For some reason my first instinct was to find an old blanket and cover him, though God knows, he was hardly in need of protection from the cold any more.
Over the past couple of years hed been a regular in our street, appearing on my front doorstep and those of my neighbours where he could be fairly sure hed get food or drink. I guess we are a pretty well disposed lot. No-one ever threatened him or sent him off. But then there was a decency, even a dignity about him. He communicated by look rather than voice, and in doing so he brought out the best in us.
Im not sure how he came to be called Sam. It may have been old Mrs Dobson, two doors up from me, who had so named him. She had a stone seat in her front garden, and Sam would make himself comfortable there on occasions, often dozing for much of a sunny afternoon under the shade of her cherry tree. She referred to him as just an old vagrant with a bit of a cheek. But she let him be.
We thought it a nice touch when she had the small brass plate made and inscribed with Sams Place, and set on the back rest of that seat. And the engraving of the cats head under the words wasnt a bad likeness of the old tabby. I miss him.
Click Here to return to Fiction Index