Cats of the Twilight
written by: Nate Stonecypher
Rosella opened the cat food tin and set the lid next to the ancient kitchen sink. The room was immediately awash with the odour of ocean whitefish. If that doesn’t bring them, nothing will, she thought, and plopped the contents into the battered bowl.
She opened the back door to a chill grey November twilight and set the bowl on the porch. Sinuous shapes moved among the leafless trees beyond the garden.
‘Come, kitty kitty…’
Kenneth was the first to emerge, his tail held high as he stepped soundlessly through the withered grass toward her. Rosella could see dead leaves between his black tabby stripes, as though under a thin layer of cloudy water.
His eyes look so dull now. No longer luminous yellow, as they were before he… before.
Beyond Kenneth, the others were approaching. Felix, his once-glossy black coat a dim, filmy net curtain. A few steps behind, the orange tabby, Johnny—now almost transparent.
The cats reached the porch and grouped themselves with feline precision around the bowl’s rim. They did not eat.
Rosella felt no surprise. Her cats had long since gone over from vibrant, solid creatures to this curious spectral existence. No sound reached her from the trio—no sniffing, no chewing or swallowing, no meowing. She supposed they enjoyed the ritual; it was hard to tell. All she knew for certain is that they came every evening, time after time, as regular as clockwork… and that she needed the evening ritual in this, the sunset time of her life, as much as they did.
Kenneth and the others turned to leave.
I wish they could stay longer. They did, before.
Rosella always marvelled at the delicate ballet of their movements around each other. Presumably, they can walk through one another’s shades… can’t they? Or do they have rules in their ghostly realm that won’t allow for that? At any rate, they never did; each cat kept to its independent path as they slipped away silently through the undisturbed dry leaves, casting no shadows… bound for wherever they stayed nowadays.
Rosella retrieved the still-full bowl.. A shame, it is. No other cats in the neighbourhood to eat such perfectly good cat food.
The twilight had faded to full darkness. Rosella went inside. No need for the lights—she never turned them on these days; she knew her way by heart around the kitchen. She scraped the untouched food into the bin, then turned to the sink to wash the bowl and tin opener.
An unexpected pang of sorrow touched the edge of her consciousness. How nice it would be to have my kitties at my feet again by the fireside, chasing my ball of yarn as I knit. Or to feel their comforting warmth and contented purring in my lap. Her cats were beyond such measures. But at least, she amended, beyond pain and disease. A shadowy existence did have some small compensating qualities.
At least she had plenty of cat food. They might choose to begin eating again. I can’t give up hope. She would have to make some sort of arrangements when the stacked tins finally dwindled.
There’s time to think about that later. She went into the now-dark living room, where her chair and yarn awaited.
***
Claire watched from her back door as Kenneth, Felix, and Johnny padded into her garden along a familiar path in the darkness, their steps stirring the dry autumn leaves. Warm light spilled from the large yellow house’s windows. Kenneth approached the glass door and meowed, his voice audible within the kitchen. The other cats joined the chorus, eyes a-gleam.
‘Here you are, and exactly on time, you poor things! Wait right here. I’ll get your dinner.’ Claire moved away beyond the door and reappeared with a sparkling ceramic cat bowl filled with food. She opened the door and set the food at the cats’ feet.
‘I hope you aren’t tired of the ocean whitefish. It’s so lucky I remembered that Rosella always used to have that flavour for you.’ She beamed as the cats, arrayed neatly around the bowl, began to eat the food, their cat-shaped shadows stretched and elongated across the garden beyond the bright back-porch illumination.
Within minutes, the bowl was empty.
‘You were hungry tonight, weren’t you? Are the Aldersons and the Clayton girls still feeding you? You don’t look starved anymore, thank goodness. Well… enjoy your evening, little friends. I wish you’d let us find nice homes for you, or adopt you ourselves, but I guess you’re accustomed to living on your own by now. Find warm spots to curl up, all right? And we’ll look for you tomorrow.’
The cats looked up at her, licking their whiskers, with a hint of satisfaction—or perhaps it was gratitude—on their inscrutable feline features.
Claire slowly closed the door, watching as the cats vanished beyond the porch light’s glow. The quiet click of the door latch reached sensitive ears, and Felix looked back toward Claire, as he always did. The glimmer of his yellow-green eyes seemed to float for a moment in the rear garden’s darkness.
Her husband’s footsteps approached. Claire turned.
‘Poor Rosella’s cats? Are they still doing okay?’
‘As well as can be expected, I guess, considering they live on their own,’ said Claire. ‘I still wish we could re-home them.’
‘I know they miss Rosella,’ Frank said. ‘It’s hard on pets when their owner dies.’
‘Oh, yes. And do you know, they still go to her back door, calling and meowing. I’m sure they’re hoping she’ll open the door and feed them out of that old bowl they always liked,’ Claire said. ‘Eleanor next door says she sees them sitting in a circle in the twilight, like they’re picturing Rosella setting it down for them.’
‘Eighteen months.’ Her husband shook his head sadly. ‘I hope they’ll let us, or someone, find them homes.’
‘So do I, dear. They seem to have adjusted to things as they are, though.’
Frank sighed. ‘Life goes on, I suppose.’
‘Yes. Thankfully, it does indeed.’ Claire turned out the light and followed Frank into the living room.
- Cats of the Twilight - September 2, 2025
