The Scrap Cat Chronicles

They called me a ghost. For years, I prowled the edges of the scrapyard, quiet, unseen, untouchable. I liked it that way. The machines were loud, the people busier still, and I had learned long ago not to trust too easily. I slipped through shadows, padded along the tops of rusted cars, and curled up beneath old machinery when the wind cut too sharp. No one ever came too close. I made sure of it.

But then the world changed. The humans vanished. Their loud metal beasts stopped growling. The yard grew still. And for the first time, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time. Loneliness.

That’s when I saw her. The woman with the soft steps and the kind voice. She moved differently from the others, and though I kept my distance at first, something about her drew me in. I began to follow her, not too close, just enough. I watched. Waited. Wondered.

The heat that summer was unbearable. My usual hiding spots turned into ovens. I could barely breathe. I must have looked worse than I felt, because one afternoon, she noticed me struggling. She placed a bowl of water on the ground and stepped away. I hesitated… then drank. It was the first kindness I’d accepted in years.

The next morning, I waited outside her office. Just waited. She looked surprised, but not scared. That night, I followed her home. Perched myself on her coal bunker and watched the stars. I didn’t know it then, but I had made a choice. I had found my person.

She took me to the vet soon after, clever woman. I didn’t make it easy, but something told me to trust her. They scanned me and found a chip. Turns out, I already had a name, a history, even people who once called me theirs.

They’d found me long ago, broken and pregnant, after a car hit me. They saved my life. I’ll never forget that. But I was never one to stay put. I wandered. I always did. And when I found the scrapyard, it felt… familiar. Like I belonged there.

Hayley that’s her name, tried to return me to them. She really did. But I wasn’t having it. Fifteen minutes after she left, I was at her door, meowing like my life depended on it. She opened it without a word. She already knew.

From then on, I followed her everywhere. From her house to the yard. From the yard to her office. I found comfort in her footsteps, and slowly, she found comfort in mine. She started calling me her baby girl. She said I’d softened her, that she never really liked cats until me.

At first, I only crept into a few rooms. I had to be sure but with time, I let myself curl up on her bed, nap in her office chair, even sprawl out across her keyboard while she worked. The humans at the yard began to notice. They started leaving out treats. One of them called me “Scrap Cat,” and the name stuck.

I earned my keep, of course. I brought them gifts, a shiny bolt here, a mouse there. They didn’t always seem impressed, but I know deep down, they were grateful. Now I’m older. Eleven, they say. My back is stiffer, and I don’t jump as high, but I still walk the yard like I own it. Because I do!

I was once a shadow, a whisper, a wild thing that trusted no one. But somehow, against all odds, I found a home, not just a place, but a person. And that’s something even a scrapyard cat like me never dared to hope for.

I am Scrap Cat. And this is my kingdom.