Catboy (5 page)

“You know the condos are not far behind when the dollar stores start becoming yoga studios, art galleries and doggie bakeries,” Mr. Singh said.

“Doggie bakeries?”

He laughed. “There is one a few blocks away. It makes treats for people's pet dogs. Some people have more money than they know what to do with. Well, it is their money. The condos will come.”

“But not now,” I said.

“Not yet, but ultimately this whole city will become one gigantic condo development. There will be no room for factories, or businesses like this scrapyard.”

“I guess that's too bad.”

He shrugged. “I will get another job. Maybe I will guard the condos instead. Are you here to say hello or to take a shortcut?”

“Can I do both?”

“Of course. Come, I will walk through with you. It is time for my rounds.”

“Your rounds?” I asked.

“A bad guard sits in his little house and reads the paper. A good guard walks around the property every hour. I am a good guard. I was on one of my rounds when I found you and those bad boys.”

He pushed the large metal gate, and it opened with a long, loud groan. I stepped inside, and he closed the gate behind us.

“So you think I could stop and see the cats, right?” I asked. “I saved them a bit of my lunch.”

“Of course.” He paused and then chuckled. “I saved them a bit of mine too,” he said quietly. He looked like a guilty little boy.

He popped into his guardhouse and returned holding a paper bag.

“I have a bit of my baloney sandwich. Do you think they like baloney?” I asked.

“They like everything! We have a saying: beggars cannot be choosers. Come, we will find the cats.”

I followed as he led me through the yard. I tried to figure out the layout, but one row of wrecks looked like all the others.

“Taylor, what grade are you in?” Mr. Singh asked.

“Grade six.”

“And do you have brothers and sisters?”

“Just me. Do you have kids?” I asked.

“I have four children, but they are older than you. Two of my children are in university and two are finished their schooling. My oldest son is a doctor, and my oldest daughter is a chartered accountant.”

“That's great! You must be so proud of them.”

“I am proud of all my children, such good children they are. My littlest girl is training to be a teacher— perhaps she will be your teacher some day. And my youngest, another boy, he wishes to follow in my path.”

“He wants to become a security guard?” I blurted out.

“No, no, no,” he said with a laugh. “He will become a lawyer. In Canada I am a security guard. In India I was a lawyer. I worked for a very big firm, very important.”

“But if you were a lawyer there, how come you aren't a lawyer here?”

“Rules, rules and more rules. There are many people from other countries who cannot become qualified to practice their professions in this country. There are doctors from other countries driving taxi cabs in Canada.”

“But that doesn't make any sense. We need doctors and lawyers.”

“It does not need to make sense, it simply is,” he said. “But in fairness, they told me before I immigrated I would probably not be able to practice law without going back to school. With a family to raise, there was not the money for that, so I am a proud soldier, a security guard.”

“That must have been hard to come here knowing you'd have to stop being a lawyer.”

“It was hard, but it was the right decision for my children and their futures. My oldest boy, my doctor son, wants me to stay at home and he will support me. I tell him that I am still the father, and if
he
needs money, he can come to
me.
I will give him some money!”

Mr. Singh sounded so proud. “There were many things that were hard in coming here. I knew very little English,” he said.

“You speak so well now.”

“I learned. There was so much new to learn, but the hardest adjustment was the weather. It is very
cold
in this country, and who knew winter could be so long!”

“It's not nearly as cold here as where I come from.”

“You are not Canadian?” he asked.

“I am, but I'm from a town up north. Up there, they have snow before Halloween and it stays until the end of March, or later.”

“You must be from the North Pole!” he said and started to laugh.

“Not quite, but farther north than here,” I said.

“There is one good thing about a Sikh coming to this country. We come equipped for the cold,” he said, pointing up to his bright red turban. “I like to think of this as my Sikh tuque. At least my head is warm in the winter!”

He smiled broadly, and I did too.

“How long have you been in Canada?” I asked.

“Twenty-one years. I have been a Canadian citizen for almost fifteen years. Two of my children are born citizens and the other two became Canadians as soon as possible. You know that sometimes people ask me,
Where are you from?
and I tell them Toronto. Then I tell them about where I was born. I am proud to be Sikh. But I am also proud to be Canadian. You must always take pride in where you come from, but also in where you are and where you will be in the future.”

“I guess I never thought about it. I was born here,” I said.

“Like my two youngest.”

“And so were my parents and their parents.”

“And before that?” he asked.

“My great-grandparents on both sides were from Scotland.”

“Be proud of your heritage. But, in this country, we are almost all immigrants. Some find it more difficult to be here than others. Most of their difficulties aren't in where they are but what they bring with them.”

“I don't understand,” I said. “You mean like money?”

“Money is one thing that would make life easier, but I am talking about an attitude. I will tell you a story,” he said. “My wife says I like telling stories too much, that I should be a writer and not a lawyer or a security guard.” He paused. “Not that I am saying anything bad about my wife. She is a very good woman, but here is the story.

“A man moves to a new country. He wishes to know what the people are like in this new place, so he goes to see the king and asks him. The king, instead of answering, asks the man one question, ‘What were the people like where you came from?' The man replies, ‘They were kind and generous.' The king says, ‘That is how you will find them here.'

“A second man moves to the country, and he too goes and sees the king and asks the very same question about the people, and the king, in turn, asks him about the people in the country he left. The second man answers that the people where he came from were mean and unfriendly. The king replies, ‘That is how you will find them here.'

“Do you understand my story?” Mr. Singh asked.

“I think so. It's sort of like who you are and what you're like will be a big part of what happens for you wherever you live.”

“Exactly!” he exclaimed, and he gave me a big pat on the back. “No country is perfect. Here, like everywhere else, there are good people and bad people. Some of those bad people will only look at this,” he said, tapping a finger against his skin. “Or this,” he said, gesturing to his turban. “Instead of looking at the person.” He paused. “But in this country at least we
know
we are supposed to treat each other as equals. Here, in this country, a security guard can raise children who can become doctors and lawyers and teachers.”

“Or the prime minister,” I said.

“Or the prime minister. We Sikhs love politics. You mark my words, there will be a Sikh prime minister someday. But for today, I will be a proud Sikh soldier, and here are the cats I guard!”

Eight

There were at least a dozen cats standing, walking around, sitting or curled into balls sleeping, either on the ground or on the roofs or trunks of the wrecked cars.

“There are a lot of them,” I said. “How many do you think there are altogether?”

“I am not certain, and the number changes all the time.”

“I saw some kittens,” I said. “And some teenager-sized cats.”

“Yes, kittens are born all the time, and other cats disappear or die. I find the remains sometimes.”

“Do they just get old?”

“I do not believe that many live long enough to die of old age. It is not an easy life. There are many things: often cars or trucks on the street, sometimes dogs get in the yard through the holes, and of course people, like those bad boys or even worse.”

“What could be worse?” I asked.

“Poison.”

“People poison them? That's awful!”

“I think sometimes it is done on purpose. They give them poisoned food. And other times it is by accident.”

“How do you
accidentally
poison something?” I asked.

“They are trying to poison the rats, and the cats either eat the poison or they eat the poisoned rat.” He shook his head slowly and his expression was sad. “I have seen it. It is such a terrible way to die. Much pain.”

I didn't want to think about that.

“At least they are mostly safe in here,” he said. “Especially now that the yard is not being worked in very much. The owner, the man who ran the yard, he got very old and could not do it anymore. His son, he is not interested in the business, only in selling the land. Before, there were always trucks and forklifts. Sometimes they would run over the cats, or they were crushed when the wrecks were moved. But now the yard is mostly quiet. They are waiting for the condos to come.”

“I'm glad it's better for the cats now.”

“It is better, but still not easy, especially in the winter. It is not just some Sikhs who do not like the cold.”

“At least they have fur coats.”

“That is not enough. See the one cat, the black and white one,” Mr. Singh said, pointing.

“Half of them are black and white.”

“On the car, the blue car. You see how he is missing part of one ear?”

“Yeah, I see.”

“Frostbite. Some even freeze to death. Some are not well fed and suffer from diseases, and the winter finishes them off.”

“Don't they have places to get out of the cold?”

“Some nest in the wrecks or in holes in the ground.”

“I didn't know cats dug holes like that,” I said.

“I do not believe they dig holes. They simply use holes dug by other animals or ones naturally formed. Some of those holes are very, very deep. Some people even leave blankets for them. I come in and find the cats lying on them, but cats do not know how to bring those into their burrows.”

It was good to know some people cared enough to try to help the cats and not everybody was tossing rocks or spreading poison.

“Sometimes it is not just me who feeds them. I find cans of cat food on the ground sometimes,” he said.

“That's nice.”

“It would be nicer if they did not leave the cans as garbage. This is a junkyard not a garbage pit,” he said. “Look, do you see that?” A big black cat ambled into view. On his forehead was a burst of white that looked like a star. “See what he has!”

In his mouth was either a large mouse or a small rat.

“That one is a good hunter! I've seen him often with something that he has caught. Mice or rats or birds and pigeons. He helps to keep the yard free of such things.”

“Does he share with the other cats?” I asked.

“I think with his mate, and perhaps some scraps with the others. There are some cats who would simply take his food. You see that big one over there? He is not nice and takes what he wants.”

A big tabby cat—a
really
big tabby cat—had come out from under a car. On cue, the other cat, the mouse still in his mouth, scurried off in the opposite direction, quickly disappearing from view.

“If there was a king of this colony, that would be him,” Mr. Singh said.

“If he's like the king, what advice would he give to a new cat who asked about the cats in this colony?” I asked.

“His advice would be short and sweet, especially if it was another male cat. He would swat him on the head and send him on his way. Cats do not like new cats. They get into tremendous fights,” Mr. Singh said. “Before, when I did the night shift, I could be startled right out of my shoes. It would sound like someone was being killed, and I guess they practically were.”

“There's a night shift here?” I asked.

“Always a guard, but not necessarily a good guard. Some just listen to the radio or read the paper or go to sleep. That is not how to do your job. You must take pride in whatever you do, whether it is being a doctor or a lawyer or a humble security guard.”

“But now you don't work nights, do you?”

“I am senior. I only work days, no nights or weekends,” he said.

“So maybe it's better if I don't come here in the evenings or on the weekends in case the other guards get angry or chase me away,” I said.

“No one will be angry. I will tell them that you are my friend, and they will leave you alone. I am the
senior
soldier, and they listen to me.”

“Thanks. I was just wondering, why doesn't somebody just fix the holes in the fence so people can't come in?”

“We used to fix them. By the next day they'd be cut open again, so there was no point. Better to just leave them alone,” he said. “But now, let us feed the cats.”

This was what I'd been waiting for.

“Move slowly, so they do not run away,” he instructed.

Very slowly we approached the cats. Those that were sleeping woke up and quickly got to their feet, ready to flee. A couple of the smaller cats retreated, and some disappeared beneath the wrecks.

But not the big tabby, the king cat. He remained motionless but looked at us suspiciously. He looked like he had nothing to fear from us, and judging from his size, maybe he was right.