From the Windowsill: Sir William Wallace Reports on Life and Legacy in Littleton

Mommy usually does the writing, but this week she said everything has felt so heavy that she needed a break. So she asked me to take over. Naturally, I agreed—who better than me to provide perspective? Besides, I’ve always known I’d make a fine writer. My claws are sharp, my wit is sharper, and unlike most humans, I never waste words.

Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Sir William Wallace, though my friends call me Will. I live in the finest apartment in all of Littleton—second floor, right on Main Street, with a view so spectacular that I have appointed myself the official guardian of this town.

Every morning, my Mommy rises far too early. The sun has barely stretched its paws over the mountains, and she’s already sipping coffee and tapping away in front of the glowing box. I settle at her feet, as is my duty, to supervise. She says she’s “building her legacy.” I don’t know exactly what that means, but I suspect it’s a bit like how I leave my fur on every single piece of clothing she owns. Lasting impact, you know. 

From my throne at the window, I keep watch over that bronze girl across the street. She has been smiling for years without moving a whisker—an impressive show of patience. Just in front of her, the great tree has been changing color day by day. First a whisper of yellow, then a blaze of orange, and now it looks as though it might burst into flame. I’m certain the people of Littleton think they’re the ones marking the seasons, with their pumpkin spice and their scarves, but we cats know it’s the trees that do the real work.

From my window I also keep watch over the daily parade of humans below. The postal workers stride up and down Main Street on their way to Porfido’s at lunchtime. I admire their consistency, though I can’t help thinking they’d be better off napping in a patch of sun like me. The happy tourists stroll past with their purple Chutters bags, looking as if they’ve discovered a hidden treasure (and to be fair, they have—what other shop has the world’s longest candy counter?). The cyclists park their cars after a long ride at PRKR, double checking their bikes with the glow of accomplishment all over their faces. They look exhausted and proud, which makes me wonder why humans insist on tiring themselves out for fun. Cats would never.

And then there are the dogs. Every shape, every size, every shade of fur dragging their humans up and down the street on leashes. Funny, isn’t it? The humans think they’re the ones holding the leash. I’ve seen dachshunds with legs the size of carrots pulling full-grown men off balance. I’ve seen poodles prance as though the sidewalk were a runway. And don’t get me started on the Bernese mountain dogs—those lumbering giants who act like Main Street is their personal alpine pass.

I also see the daily dramas that make up small-town life. Children trying to keep up with their parents as they eagerly head toward Crum Bum for a treat. Locals standing in clusters, catching up on gossip, their breath puffing in the autumn air. Delivery trucks backing up with loud beeps, always startling the quiet of the morning. Sometimes a bus pulls up and spills the latest group of tourists, scanning the street for treats and trinkets. And the fashion! Oh, the fashion. Tourists in floppy hats and socks pulled up to their knees. Cyclists in outfits so bright I can see them without even opening my eyes all the way. And locals—practical to the core, flannel shirts buttoned tight, jeans that could survive a decade, boots made for weathering anything. I judge them all fairly, as any good cat would.

And while I observe all these antics outside, there are battles inside the house. No kingdom is without its enemies. Mine comes in the form of a mouse who dares to sneak out at night from a hole in the baseboard and nibble my food. One evening, I caught him. Yes, in my mouth. I could have ended him then and there, but what can I say? My heart is as noble as my name. I let him go, chased him back into his hole, and left him to think about his crimes. He still pops out now and then, the scoundrel, but we have an understanding. A cat must keep life interesting.

Not long ago, something unusual happened. Mommy grew very sad. She left the house for what felt like forever. The food and water bowls stayed filled, but the rooms were too quiet. I didn’t know if she was ever coming back. And then one day, she did. She smelled like sorrow, and her eyes were heavy, so I pressed close to her and snuggled harder than ever. My job, after all, is not only to guard the streets of Littleton but also to guard her heart.

Since then, I’ve heard her talk while she works. She says she’s building her legacy, though to me it looks like endless tapping at the glowing box. She told me this week about a man named Allan Clark, a fire chief who has spent decades showing up for people—rushing out into the night when others are in need. She said Allan told her, “The most important thing we do is show up. Us showing up turns what was chaos into calm.” I thought about that for a while. Perhaps that’s what she means by legacy. Maybe it’s not about how grand your life looks, but how often you’re there when someone needs you. Even I understand that, because when Mommy came home sad, all I had to do was curl up against her to remind her she wasn’t alone. 

All this talk of legacy makes me consider my own. My legacy, I suspect, will be the paw prints I’ve left on every windowsill in this house, the fur woven into the very fabric of the couch, the occasional love bite delivered when Mommy forgets that my belly is off-limits. It will be the stories told about the mighty hunter who once caught a mouse and, with great mercy, spared its life. It will be the way I appear in every photograph taken in this apartment, because I have a knack for knowing exactly when to step into the frame. And of course, my legacy will be the quiet comfort I give each day, stretched out at Mommy’s feet as she works.

Sometimes I think humans overcomplicate things. They chase after recognition and worry about whether they’re leaving a mark big enough to be remembered. Cats know better. We leave our mark every day—on the furniture, on the people we love, on the memories of anyone who has been lucky enough to scratch behind our ears. Legacy is not something we chase; it’s something we live.

So if you pass by on Main Street, know that I see you. I am the sentinel from above, the keeper of secrets, the noble hunter who sometimes spares his prey. I am William Wallace, and this is my kingdom. My legacy is written in paw prints and purrs, and if Mommy’s right, in the quiet, steady love that keeps us both going, day after day.

And while I’m only a cat, I can’t help but wonder—what about you? What paw prints, or footprints, are you leaving behind in your own kingdom? Perhaps legacy isn’t so different for humans and cats after all—it’s simply what remains when the day is done, in the lives we’ve touched and the love we’ve given.

-William Wallace