The Shadows Have Eyes: A Cat's Tale

The wind shifts. A scent drifts through the alley, stale, unfamiliar. My fur bristles before I even know why.

A stranger.

Not one of the humans who bring food. Not one of the ones who move slow and speak in soft voices. This one is different. Loud steps. The wrong smell. Not ours. I flick my tail, signaling to the others. We don’t like strangers here. We don’t trust them. Trust gets you killed.

I am called Mr. Whiskers, and this place is my home. My clan, my colony lives here, unseen, unheard. We know every shadow, every hiding place, every safe path. The humans who care for us come when the sun is low, bringing food and fresh water. We trust them. No others.

Not all cats are so lucky. I have seen them the ones with no colony, no safe place to rest. They wander alone, ribs showing, eyes dull. Some don’t last long. Others fight for scraps, always running, always afraid. A lone cat does not live long in this world.

But here, in our hidden place, we survive. Because we are together. Because the caretakers come, rain or shine, to feed us, to watch over us. We are feral, but not forgotten.

I watch the stranger from the shadows, my tail flicking once, twice. They linger too long. One of the younger cats shifts beside me, restless. I give them a sharp look. Stay low. Stay quiet. We don’t let strangers see us.

The wind shifts again. The scent fades. The human moves on.

Only when the alley is empty do we move, slipping from our hiding places like ghosts. The night belongs to us again.

And tomorrow, the caretakers will come.

They always do.

— Mr. Whiskers