Deb Howitt

Walter said his daughter had bought him the notebook after he retired. She'd suggested writing down what he did each day so he'd have things to tell her when she called. "Some days there isn't much," he said. He showed me a page from the previous week. Two sparrows. Rain before lunch. A delivery that arrived late. Then, underneath: "Cat stayed until eleven." I told him Oliver was welcome to visit. He wasn't doing any harm, and he seemed to enjoy the company. Walter asked whether he should put a cushion on the second chair. I laughed and said Oliver would probably sleep on it. The following week, I noticed Oliver wasn't finishing his breakfast. At first, I worried something was wrong. Then I realized he'd started waiting beside the back door instead of his food bowl. He wanted to leave. A few days later, Walter called me. I'd given him my number in case Oliver ever seemed unwell. He sounded embarrassed. "I hope you don't mind me calling. He hasn't been here today." Oliver was asleep on my bed. It had been raining all morning. I told Walter he was fine. "Oh, good. I thought perhaps he'd found somewhere else." I looked at Oliver, who hadn't even bothered lifting his head. I asked whether Walter would like me to bring him over when the rain stopped. There was a pause. "Only if you're going that way." That afternoon, I carried Oliver around the corner. Walter was on the porch, with a folded towel on the second chair. Oliver climbed out of my arms before I'd properly put him down. He walked straight to the towel, turned around twice, and settled himself. Walter put his newspaper aside. "Well, there you are." I stayed for a little while. He told me about the buses he used to drive and how the same passengers would wait at the same stops every morning. When I left, Oliver was still asleep. The next day, Walter called again. This time, he wasn't worried. He wanted to tell me a robin had landed on the porch railing while Oliver was there. He'd written down both of them.

Last Monday, my cat came home with a folded note tucked under his collar. "Does this cat belong to you? He visits me every morning. I'd love to know his name." There was a house number underneath. Oliver is eleven. He's always been friendly, but lately he'd been leaving after breakfast and coming home around lunchtime. I assumed he was sleeping in someone's garden. I wrote back. "His name is Oliver. He has a home, so please don't feed him. But thank you for looking out for him." The next morning, he came home with another note. "I haven't fed him. He just sits with me while I have my coffee. Thank you for telling me." On Thursday, I walked around the corner to see where he'd been going. The house was small, with a narrow porch and two wooden chairs. An older man was sitting in one of them, reading a newspaper. Oliver was asleep in the other. The man looked up when I stopped at the gate. "Are you Oliver's person?" I said yes. He introduced himself as Walter. He'd retired from driving buses two years earlier and spent most mornings on the porch. Oliver had first appeared during a rainstorm, walking straight up the steps and sitting beneath the roof. "He didn't want anything," Walter said. "Just somewhere dry." I asked whether he'd been coming back ever since. Walter smiled. Then he reached beside his chair and picked up a little notebook. He'd been keeping a record of the birds he saw from the porch. But over the last three weeks, he'd added something beneath nearly every date. "Cat came at nine."