Dear Diary,
It feels as though our friendship has stretched over a century, and now here I am, standing before you, pleading for a little help.
George, I get what youre saying, but think about your age. Where could I possibly take you? I was once a manager, and now you expect me to be a loader? Peter Clark chuckled, eyeing the silverhaired man across from him.
I gave a weary nod.
Hang in there, George Ill ring you if anything worthwhile comes up. Dont get down, mate! Well pull through! he shouted as he walked away.
That wasnt the first rejection in the past fortnight. Ive grown accustomed to the sting, learned to keep my composure, even though at first it broke me. As they say, a friend is known in hard times. I spent my whole career in senior roles, surrounded by colleagues and acquaintances. Yet when trouble knocked, there was no one at my side.
As often happens, the new boss brought his own lot. I was politely, but firmly, asked to hand in a resignation of my own accord. Retirement was just a few months away, but that mattered to no one. Suddenly I found myself without the prestigious post and without a steady income.
I refused to sink into despair. In my town there are plenty of people Ive helped over the yearsgetting jobs, funding studies, sorting out other woes. Kirk will never turn his back on me, I told my wife Eleanor as I headed for yet another interview. I helped him out big time once.
She smiled, but the interview left me glum and silent.
Its called a friend, I muttered, sighing.
Eleanor read the disappointment in my eyes without me saying a word.
Sit down, George. Everything that happens does so for a reason, she said, setting plates on the table. I nodded, then spent the evening thumbing through the contacts in my phone, the names of the best friends.
Help arrived when I was about to give up. An old driver of mine, now the director of a modest meatprocessing plant, invited me over. We could use a supply officer. Its a busy job, but I think youll manage, he said politely. Grateful for any work, I started the next day.
The plant sat on the edge of town, fenced in with two sturdy workers unloading a truck of meat. Not far away a small gang of local cats watched the ritual, perched on a low wall. I smiled at the striped felines, their whiskered faces following each delivery as if it were a sacred procession.
Later I learned the whole site was home to a whole band of cats that guarded the premises fiercely. They were a bit wild and not overly friendly. Every time I tried to pet one, it either darted away or hissed. Youve got a tough lot here, I laughed, watching the kitchen maid Beatrice carry out the lunch leftovers. Theyre not exactly cuddly, even the kittens, she nodded toward a pair of striped youngsters tussling with their elders.
In time I settled into the new routine and learned the names of all the cats. They began to trust this silverhaired man, perhaps because I often slipped them a bite. I never kept pets at home, but Ive always loved animals and tried to look after them when I could. Whenever I stepped out for a cigarette, the cats would circle me, eyes fixed on my hands, hoping there might be something to share.
Six months slipped by unnoticed. Autumn replaced the summer heat, bringing damp winds and grey rain. The cats hid more often, yet they never missed a meal. One day a lone kitten appeared on the site, thin, black, with a patch of missing fur on its back. The resident gang kept their distance, but they didnt attack. Something about that frail creature softened my heart.
I was out for my usual postlunch smoke when the kitten waddled up, a tiny black fluff on slender legs. Meow, it croaked, sneezing. What on earth is that? I asked the cats, who stared indifferently. Their coats were brownstriped with yellowgreen eyes, unlike the newcomer. The kitten rubbed against my shoe and purred.
Youre a softie, arent you? I chuckled. Looks like someone dropped a house cat here. Our own lot keep their distance, but youre a different story. The kitchen maid, who had appeared, remarked, Theyll never take to him, but at least hes not starving.
I fetched a piece of sausage for the kitten and set a small portion a short distance away for the others. They lunged at the food greedily, while the little black cat lingered, nosing my hand before finally eating. Well, look at you, you little darling, I sang softly, meeting its grateful eyes.
From then on I called the kitten Pudding. My wife asked, Who are you feeding now? I shrugged, Just a funny little kitty. She suggested, Why not bring him home? I replied, No, we dont keep pets in the flat. She shrugged, If you say so.
The weather grew harsher; the sky turned a dull soot colour. As I turned a corner, I heard a familiar voice. Oi! George, hows it going?
Peter Clark sprinted toward me, shaking his head. Got yourself a job yet? he asked earnestly, extending his hand. I gave a cold nod, kept my hand in my coat pocket, and kept walking. Ive long understood the price of our friendship.
Wilderness, Peter muttered, hurrying to his car to escape the chill.
Pudding perched on a low board at the warehouse entrance, his black coat bristling in the cold like a collection of tiny needles. They wont let you in, will they? You lot are a right bunch of rogues, I growled toward the insulated shed where the rest of the cats huddled, their golden eyes watching to see if Id bring food.
The radio that morning warned of a heavy snowfall heading for the city. Heard the forecast, George? How are you getting to work tomorrow? a driver complained. He offered me a lift home. The sky was already bruised, and the first flakes began to fall.
Dave, could you give me a lift to the plant instead? I asked suddenly. He shrugged, turned the wheel. What, missing the grind, George? he laughed as he dropped me at the fence. I didnt hear him any more.
I dashed into the courtyard, the snow already a thin white blanket. I called out, Pudding, come back! but the kitten didnt answer. The resident cats watched warily as I paced the perimeter, shouting for the little one. Soon a flock of crows settled on the fence, curious about the scene, while the snow kept falling.
Pudding! Where have you gone? I cried, glancing around. The cats, sensing the storm, retreated into their shed, huddling together for warmth, realizing no food would come from me today. I turned and left the yard.
By morning, as the weather service promised, the whole town was buried under snow. Well, thats a proper snowstorm, neighbours muttered as they trudged through deep drifts. I barely made it to work, arriving a bit late like everyone else. The groundskeeper had cleared a path, and the cats peeked out, hopeful for a treat.
I placed a small portion of sausage on the ground for them. Here you go, Pudding sends his regards, I said gently, watching the wary gang keep their distance. A sudden joy rose in me, reminiscent of childhood days when I, as a boy, used to sled down the hill with Mum and Dad. Perhaps the snow sparked that feeling.
A moment later, the black kitten emerged from its shelter at the very last second, just as I turned. I couldnt believe my eyes; I scooped him up and held him tight. Good lad, Pudding! Finally youre out, you little rascal! I repeated, as the tiny creature sneezed and yawned all the way home, clinging to my coat with his little claws.
Eleanor raised an eyebrow, You actually decided to keep him? she asked with a teasing smile.
I had to. Hed have been stuck out there in that snow alone, I admitted, setting the tiny wonder on the kitchen table. He sniffed the air, his whiskers twitching as he explored his new domain.
I watched the kitten with a soft glow in my eyes. Eleanor wrapped her arms around her gruff husband, understanding better than anyone the kindness that lay beneath his stern exterior. The kitten settled on the windowsill, watching the white drifts outside. The cats chosen friend, the man who had rescued him, stood there, unwavering.
Our bondbetween a big, retired manager and a little black kittenmay be unusual, but theres no room for deceit, betrayal, or flattery in it. Its a friendship worth waiting for and believing in.
