⏱ ~5 min reading
The cat Tymko was gray, with a white paw and green eyes like two small ripe gooseberries. He lived with Aunt Olya in a cozy cottage with dill on the windowsill, cretonne curtains, and a warm stove, near which Tymko liked to take a nap after dinner.
Aunt Olya loved Timko. Every morning she would put a bowl with a little heart on the side for him - she would pour fresh milk into the bowl, put a piece of fish or a piece of chicken meat. Sometimes - a drop of sour cream, if there was extra in the refrigerator. "Here you go, Cossack," she would say and stroke his ear. Timko would squint and respond with a soft purr, like a small working motor.
That morning, Aunt Olya left early - she went to the market to buy potatoes and fresh dill. Timko sat on the windowsill, watched as she closed the gate, and thought his cat thoughts. A sparrow sang outside. The sun stroked the gray fur. Everything was quiet.
Suddenly, Timko smelled a smell.
His nose twitched. His tail stood up like an exclamation point. He jumped down from the windowsill softly, silently, and went to the kitchen—with short, cautious steps.
There was a bowl on the table. White, ceramic, with a small chip on the side. It contained sour cream. Thick, white, and quiet. Aunt Olya must have forgotten to put it away when she was in a hurry.
Timko stood on his hind legs, placing his front legs on the edge of the table. He looked into the bowl. The sour cream looked at him like a small white lake in which he would like to swim with his tongue.
The nose whispered, "Eat.".
The tail whispered: "Hurry up, while no one is around.".
Paws whispered: "Jump on the table.".
And somewhere in the cat's little heart — where everything real lives in cats — another voice said quietly: "This is not yours, Tim.".
Timko hesitated. He was hungry—Aunt Olya hadn't poured him his morning bowl yet. The sour cream smelled so delicious that his ears began to itch. No one saw. No one would know. He could have licked it all off in a minute—and returned to the windowsill and pretended nothing had happened.
But for some reason, Timko stood there.
He remembered how Aunt Olya stroked him behind the ear. How she said, «Here’s to you, Cossack.» How one winter day, when he fell ill, she sat by his side all night, wrapped him in an old scarf and whispered, «Don’t go, kitty, you’ll go for a walk later.» Back then, it was hard for him to breathe—and now, for three years, he’s been running like a young man.
Timko imagined it. He imagined Aunt Olya returning. She goes into the kitchen. She sees an empty bowl. She thinks: «It’s Timko.» And her eyes become different. Not angry — but sad. Sad because the one she trusted took someone else’s.
Timko moved away.
Slowly he lowered himself onto all fours. He stood. He sighed like a cat — short, with a snort. And he went back. He sat down by the threshold — where his mat with faded daisies was. He curled up into a ball. He put his tail on his nose. And he waited.
Time dragged on slowly. The sun crept from the windowsill to the floor. The smell of sour cream tickled my nose. I held on tightly. I closed my eyes once — so as not to look.
An hour later, the gate creaked. Footsteps. The jingle of keys. Aunt Olya came in with a full basket—it smelled of fresh potatoes, dill, fresh from the market, and warm bread.
"Tymocha!" she called out. "I'm back!"
Timko stood up. He walked towards her — slowly, with dignity, as only cats can. He rubbed against her boot.
Aunt Olya put down the basket. She went into the kitchen. And froze. She looked at the table.
“Oh,” she said quietly, “I forgot the sour cream.”.
She looked at the bowl. The sour cream was whole, untouched. White, as it always was. Aunt Olya turned her head to Timko — he was sitting by the threshold and looking at her with a calm green eye.
"Tymka," she said slowly, as if she didn't believe herself, "you didn't eat?"
Timko blinked—slowly, with that long cat blink that means "I love you.".
Aunt Olya looked at him for a long time. Then she came up, crouched down, put both arms around his neck, and whispered softly in his ear:
"Oh, you're my gold. What a treasure you are to me.".
She took a bowl. She poured a large, whole portion of sour cream into Tymkov's own bowl—the one with the heart. She placed it on the rug.
"It's yours, kitty. Well deserved.".
Timko came over. He licked it. The sour cream was as delicious as he had imagined. Or maybe even tastier. Because when you eat your own, honestly, it's always sweeter than stolen.
From that day on, Aunt Olya knew that her Tymko was no ordinary cat. And Tymko knew one little cat rule: honesty is not a punishment for yourself. Honesty is respect for someone who loves you. And it always comes back doubled — in a bowl, in a head-to-head touch, in a quiet «what are you like me.».
And as Aunt Olya said, it's better to put the sour cream away so as not to tempt even the best of cats.
✨ Honesty is respect for someone who trusts you ✨