Kitty Litter

Oops. Since my lack of tech-savvy shows, I tried posting this again.

Hope you can see this. Sam's leaning against the tree next to the large post in the right foreground. Above his head are the blankets, and the brown lump is Ben. You can't see Jerry in the photo.

Labels: cat photos

Above is a blurred picture, of rather lousy resolution, but of all the photos I took in the US with the only camera I had—the one in my phone—I think I like this best because I remember Sam. That’s Sam crouching in the foreground. The brown lumps in the middle are his two cats, Ben and Jerry.

I met Sam in San Francisco in my first week there. I’m not sure if it’s his real name; does anyone give their real name out when clueless strangers ask them for it?

Of the homeless persons scattered around the main road, I noticed Sam because he had two large but very docile cats sleeping comfortably on top of the cart which carried all he owned in the world. I cannot resist cats, and when I saw the sign which said, “The boys and I would appreciate any contributions to their care and feeding. Thank you,” I could not resist. The sign was neatly lettered, correctly spelled, and the cats were clearly healthy.

I walked past, stopped to take this hasty photo, and told myself I’d come up and donate some money if he was still there when I came back from the convention center where I was headed.

They were. I put in a dollar, and asked Sam if I could touch the cats. He agreed, and I told him I missed my cats as I was a long way from home.

"Where's home for you?"

"The Philippines."

"Yup. Long way from home indeed," he said.

Now I am not in the habit of talking to strangers, let alone homeless ones. But Sam was relatively clean, and he was caring for two cats, so I reckoned he couldn’t be bad.

Some force in the world looks out for people like me, because it turned out that Sam was a Gulf War vet. I wanted to ask him how he ended up on the street, but I figured that would be extremely rude.

It was hard to tell how old he was; life had been hard for him, and the seams on his face were mute testimony to that. He’d lost most of his front teeth, but his blue eyes were still wide open, like a young man’s.

He told me that what he wanted most of all was to find work. Sam was proud of being a handy person to have around, and he took particular pride in doing good work. “I slice carrots and vegetables neatly,” he said, “not like those college kids who don’t give a damn. When you work just because you want extra money, you don’t care. When you work because two hungry mouths depend on you, you take care to do a good job because you don’t want that ‘Help Wanted’ sign to follow you out the door.”

Because he was forced to slur his words somewhat due to the lack of teeth, I had a slightly hard time following him. All the while I was patting Ben, the cat closest to me, and Ben purred gently as Sam talked.

“Don’t you…Aren’t you entitled to welfare?” I asked, knowing only that some people are qualified and some aren’t.

“No,” he replied, and smiled sadly. “You see, I am entitled to welfare and shelter but I have to give up Ben and Jerry.” He glanced over at the pair lying quietly on top of the blankets he’d piled under them, and patted Jerry. “You don’t throw away your best friends. These guys were my comfort when I came home after the war. That’s why I want a job, a real one. But when you’re my age and you look the way I do, even crummy jobs are hard to get.”

As we talked, three young Korean tourists, all male, marveled at the size of the cats and patted them, but they left no contribution in Sam’s cup. Other tourists walked past, and one middle-aged woman said to me loudly, “Girl, you don’t wanna be talking to that bum!” We both ignored her.

Sam went on to compare the rents in San Francisco versus Sacramento, and told me he was saving for a bus ticket to Sacramento, where he was told it would be easier to get a job and rent a small place where he and the cats could live. I wondered if I would ever be able to do what Sam had done: give up the chance for a home he was entitled to in order to save the lives of his cats. They would have to be euthanized if he ever moved into the state home.

He broke off, and looked at me intently. “Young lady, you know you’re probably the first to really talk to me and listen. Like I’m a real person.”

That’s because I’m a stupid tourist, I wanted to say, but I didn’t. In fact, I had no idea what to say.

When he asked me my name, I gave it to him freely. I’d been there for half an hour, and I knew my editor would kill me if I didn’t finish the stuff she asked me to do, so I told Sam that I had to be going, and he shook my hand. He had the callused hands of one who has had to work all his life, and I began to believe his story.

“I hope you reach Sacramento, and find a real home for you and Ben and Jerry,” I told him before I left. He thanked me, and wished me well.

The next day, when I passed by again, they were gone.

I could say that I hope for the best for them. I could lecture whoever’s reading this about the unjustness of this world, or the love a person can have for animals, or something everyone’s heard in one form or another before. But that’s cheap.

What I do know is that there are things you don’t do when you’re at home. Being in another country can give you a strange bravery of sorts, and I’m glad I took the time out to talk to Sam.

Labels: cats, sad story

They say the best part of traveling is going home, and I'm inclined to agree, except for the turbulence.

I would've kissed the ground as soon as the plane landed except 1) I'm not the late beloved Pope John Paul, who made a habit of kissing soil wherever he went; 2) PAL is smart enough to make sure passengers like me can never touch the tarmac; and 3) I'm not sure I want my lips to make contact with ground trodden on by god-knows-who. And what was the reason for such enthusiasm? Turbulence. Air pockets. Call it what you like; I say goddamnit, I hate them.

Wynn roused himself at the ungodly hour of 3 am just to get me from the airport some time later. The sad part is that the only time I ever got discriminated against was when I came home; an officious customs clerk yelled at me, then in the next breath was honey-sweet with a Caucasian foreigner who came after me. And to think I came from the South in the US!

Every time I go abroad (twice, and never again, I hope), I lose weight because I pine for the silliest things: tapsilog, stray cats, Tagalog curses, kare-kare (wait, I pine for that even at home...). You never think of yourself as a foreigner in another land; you think of everyone else as being a tourist, and you do things you would never do back home for fear of having what's left of your good name ruined.

But I think what matters most about journeys is when you discover things about yourself. I thought I was fairly open-minded; that is, until I was thrown into the lap of a male dancer on Castro Street in San Francisco and discovered the meaning of "want a taste?" It was not as pleasant as they make it out to be in the movies; I like handsome men as much as the next woman, but coming face to face with the "goods" made me miss Wynn even more.

We made up for lost time on our first drive out. Prior to leaving for the US, my car had been struck by the driver of a Hyundai van who reasoned that, between a new Innova and my old but faithful Mazda, it would be cheaper to hit me. (He has fled; any information leading to the owner or driver of a Hyundai with plate number REF 890 will be much appreciated.)

Driving down E Rodriguez, we were crossing with the green light on our side when we encountered an arrogant teen pedestrian, palm held out in the disdainful "HOLD IT!" gesture all drivers are familiar with (and would love to run over), crossing against the light in a "WALANG TAWIRAN NAKAMAMAMATAY" (don't you just love that?) zone. I honked to warn the ugly boy when he flashed us the finger.

In a flash, Wynn was out of the car. To say he was a frightening sight, with his long hair unbound, an arnis stick in one hand and a menacing expression on his face, is an understatement but it will suffice for now. On his way to chase the ugly teen down, Wynn zoomed past a pushcart team, the members of which clutched at their hearts and plastered themselves against the wall to avoid him.

I followed, and was just in time to hear the leader of the pushcart team say, "Uy, may away. Nood tayo!"

There's no place like home indeed.

Labels: funny fights, Wynn