My neighbor, Aunt Lyuba, lives across the street. I often stop by to visit her: either for tea, to get milk for her, or to pick up some medicine. I wouldn't say she's completely lonely—she has a daughter, but she got married a long time ago and moved abroad, and she calls her mother on Skype and occasionally sends packages. During her last visit, three years ago, she gave Aunt Lyuba a kitten so she wouldn't be so lonely. It turned out to be a very effective gift; my neighbor absolutely adores her beloved British Shorthair, Musa. The kitty is a perfect match for her: calm, affectionate, and very beautiful.
Musya often sat next to her nurse by the window, observing everything that went on in the yard. It was their only connection to the outside world. Whenever I brought gifts to Aunt Lyuba's, I always brought a treat for the cat, too. And in gratitude, she would climb onto my lap, purr, and nuzzle me. Then, after a couple of minutes, she'd jump off and climb into the neighbor's arms. Basically, she was the perfect, devoted, and stoic pet.
One night, Aunt Lyuba called me, barely holding back her sobs, to tell me that her cat Musya was dying—lying on the floor, screaming hysterically. She must have been poisoned by the fish I'd brought her. I remembered there was a 24-hour veterinary clinic nearby. So, I grabbed the sobbing Aunt Lyuba, she grabbed the screaming Musya, and we raced to the vet. "Doctor, my cat's dying, help!" the neighbor moaned when we arrived at the hospital. The doctor took one quick look at the animal, ushered us out the door, and told us to wait. Having calmed down a bit, the neighbor apologized for disturbing me in the middle of the night and sent me home, promising to tell me how it all ended in the morning.
Early one morning, still waiting for no call from my neighbor, I decided to go see her myself. The woman opened the door. She was no longer crying. But for some reason, Musya didn't run out to greet me either. Assuming the worst, instead of saying "hello," I looked questioningly at the neighbor. She gestured for me to come in and led me into the room. In a cardboard box by the bed, on a pile of towels, lay Musya. Alive! And next to her, scurrying… two newborn kittens. I breathed a sigh of relief. And Aunt Lyuba, wiping away a tear, said, "How she scared me! I wondered what I'd do without my kitty! And she, the bandit, was like that! She decided to make me happy!" The woman told me that half an hour after I left the clinic, the veterinarian took her into the office and showed her the "reason" why the pet had frightened her owner so much.
It turned out that Musya wasn't a plump, lazy homebody at all, but a rather mischievous flirt, who sat faithfully at her owner's feet during the day and snuck out the window for a stroll at night. Then, in the early morning, she'd return home while her owner was still asleep. And the reason for the animal's sudden weight gain wasn't a sedentary lifestyle, but pregnancy. And there was no poisoning; Musya simply decided to give birth. Now Aunt Lyuba has a whole family of cats in her apartment—she'll definitely never get bored with them.
