“No.”
He turned back, offended by my presence, and resumed feeding the pigeons and birds stale bread. I left him alone after that first day, but every weekend I’d return and he was there, throwing bread either at the water for the ducks, or at the beach for the pigeons/birds. I showed up after the fourth time with a bag of bread from my house. I gave it to him and went to leave when he said, “You can feed them that, if you want.”
I glanced around at the few elderly people walking by, staring at us with strange expressions. For the first time ever, it didn’t bother me in the slightest. I sat down next to Ray and I threw the ducks bread, totally in denial about how bad it probably was for their health. Was duck killer worse than brother-fucker? I hesitated on that thought and decided to put the bread aside. When I left him that day, I googled it and replaced bread with oats from my cupboard. Oats always died in my pantry, like bananas.
I learned a bit about Ray. We weren’t talkers though, so my info was limited. He was only twenty-three and had black curly hair and scruffy cheeks. He was a drug head. I wasn’t stereotyping that shit; he’d told me himself once: “I gotta go buy some coke. Feed the birds my bread for me, will you?”
I’d nodded and he’d left. When he came back, he was high off his ass and smoking a cigarette. He had the nerve to ask me if I could spare him some coin.
“No, Ray,” I hissed, “I will not spare you some coin. Get clean.”
“Fuck you, Eldorado.”
“It’s Elise.”
“Whatever.”
I rolled my eyes. “That shit is going to kill you.”
“Good.”
I was a little startled by his tone. He honestly didn’t seem to care. “What do you mean good? Do you want to die?”
“Nobody would care.”
“Don’t you have family?”
“My crew are my family.”
“Are the people in your crew homeless too?”
“Yep.”
I pursed my lips. “What about your real family? What happened to them?”
“I got abused, so I ran away from him.” Him. My heart hurt for my druggie homeless friend who liked to feed pigeons stale bread. He’d answered it so matter-of-fact. Nothing more, nothing else. It was kind of the perfect answer.
“Sorry to hear that,” I muttered.
He shrugged. “What’s your story?”
“I fucked my brother.”
“Nice.”
“He wasn’t my real brother.”
“I’m not judging.”
I cracked a smile as he pulled a funny face. “Everyone talks about me. My father died and I kind of lost my shit. Aston – my adopted brother – took off on me.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry about your old man.”
“Thanks.”
That was the end of that conversation. It was the most we’d ever talked. I left him sometime later when I discovered I was late for work. I was walking down the beach when I saw something black scurry into a bush. I thought it was a rabbit at first. For some reason, I walked to the small bush and stood there for several moments.
“Hello?” I asked, which was stupid. Was I expecting this bunny to say hello back?
To my surprise, the black furry animal emerged from the bush and rubbed against my leg. Its furry ball of a head looked up at me and went, “meow.” It was love at first meow. I knelt down and patted the furry head. The cat was tiny, a kitten judging by its size, and all bones. I could feel the spine as I slid my hand from head to bum.
“You’re a stray,” I muttered, looking at its collarless neck.
I looked around, wondering what I should do in this situation. This wasn’t the first stray I’d seen. I’d always just walked right past them, these tiny little creatures that were all fending for themselves. When she nudged against my leg again and purred under my palm, I knew what she was asking for. Scraps of food. I wanted to give her more than scraps of food, though.
I gathered her in my arms and walked back home with her. Then I called in sick to work, hopped a bus to the nearest vet, and sank a healthy chunk of my savings into her.
Her was actually him, and he was nine weeks old and severely underweight. He got his shots done and we scheduled a date to get him neutered (God, that word sounded offensive).
After that, I bought a crate, a litter box, litter, food, and a scratching post. Another hit to my unhealthy savings account. When I got home, I gave him a soft blanket and he crashed after a giant bowl of food.
*
I decided on the name the next day. I skipped school to spend time with my new furry friend. I’d just given him a bath, and it was surprisingly easy. He ducked his head under the running water with his mouth wide open. It was the strangest thing. I thought cats hated water. After he stopped smelling like a trashcan, I wrapped him up in a towel and was carrying him downstairs when the doorbell rang.