Several years ago, a cat appeared in an ordinary courtyard. Perhaps once upon a time, he had been large and stately, with a luxurious striped coat resembling a sailor’s striped vest.
Now, however, he was a pitiful sight: covered in dirt, with tufts of fur torn out, covered in scars, with one eye and one ear, a once-broken tail, and a damaged hind leg. He walked on three thin, long legs, hopping so that it seemed he wasn’t walking, but performing a strange street dance.
The cat ate whatever he could find: he’d pick up things on the street or find dog scraps near the trash cans. To the residents of the courtyard, he was nothing more than an unwanted detail in the landscape—like a dried leaf or a small pebble.
He had no name. He was simply Cat—of no one’s use and of no use to anyone. At night, he hid under parked cars, which served as both home and shelter from the rain, snow, bitter cold, dogs, and angry people.
He had long since resigned himself to the blows, indifference, and constant hostility that had accompanied him throughout his difficult and lonely life. When, driven by despair, he tried to slip into a warm entryway, residents would grimace and kick him away, as if forever banishing the “intruder.”
People winced, trying to quickly rid themselves of the sight of the dirty, ugly animal. His hungry, pleading eyes only irritated them. Sticks, stones, bottles—whatever was at hand in the hands of those who were especially “fierce”—were thrown at him.
His only “crime” was that he breathed and continued to live.
The janitor—not a woman who was inherently evil, but broken by a difficult fate and a drunken husband—also found the Cat a target for her troubles. To the ridicule of the entire neighborhood, she doused the poor fellow with ice-cold water from a hose.
“Well, let’s give our handsome fellow a bath!” she laughed sarcastically.
The Cat sat meekly, curled into a shivering ball, taking this cold shower. He had long since stopped resisting the cruelty of the world.
And yet, he retained one weakness: he adored children. As soon as he saw them, he would hop up on his sore paw and run toward them, hoping for a little affection. Even just rubbing against their feet was a joy. But his parents strictly forbade their children from approaching the “dirty and sick” cat.
Only a girl named Lyolka, breaking the ban, would sometimes secretly pet him and even pick him up. Then the Cat, closing his one eye, would purr loudly like a kitten and suck on a button on her blouse. At those moments, Lyolka didn’t see him as an ugly stray, but as a domesticated and beloved one.
The girl repeatedly begged her parents to take him home:
“I’ll take care of him myself, wash him with shampoo, feed him, and make sure he gets straight A’s! He’ll be clean and beautiful, his eye can be fixed. He’s so kind!”
But the adults were adamant:
“Lyolka, forget it. The last thing we need is a flea-ridden stray at home. Just look at him!”
Lyolka continued to feed him secretly—a cutlet or a piece of sausage. For the exhausted stray, it was a real feast.
Summer had arrived. A time for rest, travel, and fun. Only in the life of the alley Cat, nothing changed.
One day, Lyolka and her friends were playing hopscotch. A cat lay nearby, its skinny sides exposed to the sun. A man with two dogs emerged from the entrance. A short command rang out: “Sicken!”
The cat tried to run to a tree, but its sore paw wouldn’t let it. The dogs caught up with it instantly. With a loud bark, they latched onto the defenseless animal.
Lyolka, forgetting her fear, rushed toward it, screaming. The owner, seeing the girl, quickly led the dogs away.
The cat lay motionless on the scarlet-stained grass. Lyolka picked it up and hugged it:
“Be patient, please… just don’t die…”
It wheezed, trembled, and gradually grew quiet. Tears streamed down the girl’s face. But suddenly the cat inhaled heavily, began to purr, and again reached for the button on her blouse. His single eye glowed with affection.
By this time, everyone in the courtyard had gathered around. The children were crying along with Lyolka, the adults were silent, hiding their eyes. The parents came running. They tried to take the Cat away:
“Lyolka, let’s go home. Put him down, he can’t be helped…”
“No one is to blame?! It’s all our fault!” the girl screamed. “Me too! Look what we’ve done!”
“Enough!” the parents insisted. “Leave him and let’s go.”
“Then I’ll go with him!” Lyolka replied firmly. And with the dying Cat in her arms, she walked away. The parents rushed after her…
So despised by everyone, disfigured, unwanted, the Cat had found a family. He had survived. He simply couldn’t help but survive—after all, now he had Lyolka. He had a home, a mistress, a woman worth living for.
Once he became a domestic cat, Barsik (as the girl named him) hated nothing more than walking in the yard. Now he preferred to sit on the balcony or windowsill, squinting with fullness and looking out at the street. Down there, was the old world. And next to him was the kindest, bravest, and most beloved owner, his Lyolka.
