A slim waiting tortoiseshell by the road-divider
Tonight after dining with B&M near my office, while we walked towards the taxi stand to grab a ride home, I saw an elderly Sikh gentleman feeding some community cats. My friend who lives in the block where my office is had told me before of an Indian man who has been faithfully feeding the stray cats on the area, so I decided to cross the road and say hello.
I admired the cats, asked for his name and his number. He told me he'd been feeding the cats for over 20 years, while he was working with an organisation which was next to the building where I worked. Now as a retiree, he returned to the former place of his work twice a day - at 5:30 AM and 9 PM - to feed these stray cats that didn't really belong to anyone.
He told me: "Once a day is not enough. I feed the cats on this side of the road, and then I cross the road to feed those other cats. They all run out to me when they hear my scooter. Look, do you see them waiting?"
I look across the road, and there's a slim tortoiseshell sitting patiently by a road divider, watching him as he scoops out kibble onto newspaper to feed her brethren.
I don't really know if I feel happy or sad. I know I feel grateful, and at the same time apprehensive about what will happen to the cats when the gentleman is no longer able to feed them. I might move away, things might change. It's a little bit like nostalgia, this sense of appreciation and sadness.
I get his name and number before I cross the road to pet the tri-coloured cat. She won't let me touch her, but she rubs herself ecstatically against the road divider that instructs drivers to turn left into the parking facility.
B&M are very understanding about the whole deal, having waited for me the entire duration.
"It was interesting to watch," they ventured, when I apologized about, taking so long.
I admired the cats, asked for his name and his number. He told me he'd been feeding the cats for over 20 years, while he was working with an organisation which was next to the building where I worked. Now as a retiree, he returned to the former place of his work twice a day - at 5:30 AM and 9 PM - to feed these stray cats that didn't really belong to anyone.
He told me: "Once a day is not enough. I feed the cats on this side of the road, and then I cross the road to feed those other cats. They all run out to me when they hear my scooter. Look, do you see them waiting?"
I look across the road, and there's a slim tortoiseshell sitting patiently by a road divider, watching him as he scoops out kibble onto newspaper to feed her brethren.
I don't really know if I feel happy or sad. I know I feel grateful, and at the same time apprehensive about what will happen to the cats when the gentleman is no longer able to feed them. I might move away, things might change. It's a little bit like nostalgia, this sense of appreciation and sadness.
I get his name and number before I cross the road to pet the tri-coloured cat. She won't let me touch her, but she rubs herself ecstatically against the road divider that instructs drivers to turn left into the parking facility.
B&M are very understanding about the whole deal, having waited for me the entire duration.
"It was interesting to watch," they ventured, when I apologized about, taking so long.