I still go around the mountain side whenever I can, and keep calling Sierra’s name. I know it’s most unlikely I will find her, but I want to send a clear message to whoever take her that I want my belonging – as cats so defined in my world – back. Throughout the block and the one behind it and the one to the left and to the right, everybody knows I picked up street cats everywhere and I know that is partial reason people keep dumping unwanted animals down my door, dead or alive.
It’s just that someone is thinking creatively and try to make me free source of their free money.
No one will understand what faulty brain and twisted moral people have here, so I won’t dwell into it so much, but I have had cats stolen before and the pain stayed even longer and garish than those I lost out of death.
One more thing, and I want whoever in charge of rotating my globe to completely understand: I have had enough. I have followed all the games and rules and swallowed whatever sh!t these “upper being(s)” thrown at me one after the other and I don’t need anymore.
The whole day yesterday, still no Sierra. I took time looking at all the men who gathers in that hut across the street from my house watching me doing my thing. The running mouthed widow who lived there, toward whom I always show compassion, is the assembly spot of jacks and janes of all trade.
Every so often (if not always) people will ask about this person or that person and her slippery mouth is always watery. That’s how even more people had a hint where to dump things. At other time, complete strangers from all the way across town – no, literally – would approach me and offer stuffs. Shoes, carpets, curtains, repair, sofa service, vehicle rental, maids, cleaning service, cleaners, handmade soaps, self-weaved mats, gardeners, builders, plants, flowers, purebred birds, long haired rabbits, computers, animal mating…
I would turn them down politely and go inside the house, take a peek and each and everyone of them will always come back to her place, and she would always ask “how it is?” and they would shake their head, and both of them or more will look at the direction of my front door with disdain.
It doesn’t make my life easier, but it gives me idea that if someone ever take something from my place, they would have come from her mouth.
And I am her frenemy, or so to say. She would ask me nicely where I am going, what I am doing, what my work is, where is my office, how long does it take from here to there, what kind of vehicle I would use, what time at one day I would come home and what time would the other I would go out, whatever, and I will smile gently like a lady would be.
And I will feed her tailor designed answers; specifically for her. I worked at a pet shop, I worked in shift, my boss is mean so she does not make schedule, she orders us as she likes. She? yes, she. Devil wears Prada, no? I learn how to farm at school, I learn how to groom cats. I did not graduate college, that bananas always have even fruits, that salt is ok for hypertension from time to time, that all these uber drivers are my friends, or the family of a friend, or sometimes other employees.That I have boyfriend who works in military, high ranking enough to have license to kill.
And when I heard someone whispers “Is that all true?” to the end of her free broadcast, she would say “Of course it’s true!”
Yes it is. True Lies.
Except for these: 1. My cats is not exotic breed of any sort (hard to believe) 2. My cats are not for sale (no one cares, they bid anyway). 3. I do not sell, I do not buy, I do not mate animals, any animal (some tough guy learn it the hard way and everyone stop asking since).
If ever someone ask, anyhow, based on what they know about me, I’d know where they come from. I’d ask who their name is (can be faked), where do they live (can be faked), ask their cellphone number (trickier to fake), remember their license plate (not that easy to fake).
The last time someone asked about Sierra, it lead me to the neighborhood down the hills; where some of the lowest income people I helped lives, also where some of the most notorious street thugs hang around; including that guy who told his eight years old son to pick Jack up the street and ran for it right under my nose (literally).
So I stood on the street and let some motorbike taxi pick me up and ask if they ever hear someone looking for a white and silver cat. I will listen to them, drop down, made a turn at the next alley, and stand right there and all over again, all the way up back to the front of my house.
It’s very easy for me to get such information, because my broadcaster made an ad for me. Josie never bid any merchandise she bought from street sellers, especially the old ones and ones with disability. Josie always give, Josie is kind, she always buy me food, she gives me medicine, she…
No matter, but it always end with this: If you are kind to her, she will be royal to you.
Since there was still no Sierra at dusk, while it is known all across the mountain that Josie is looking for her white and silver cat, with eyeliner, At nine late I walked to that house in the middle of beehive-dense cheap room rentals.
I jumped over the fence, and walked straight in. I stepped over the grass, I go round to the garage, I walked over with mud filled shoes across the terrace. I found Sierra looking at me wide eyed inside fighting rooster cage.
I pulled the raffia that bound the door and Sierra jumped out.
Unfortunately, I forgot to turn my cellphone to silent.
A friend over facebook messenger.
A pair of rugged rough eyes peeked from behind the window and I turned back to meet him in the eye.
He glared, I smiled.
I saw him looking at Sierra sitting by my foot, and then look back at me with the whole new expression.
Peek a boo, I see you.
I turned back and jumped over the low fence. Sierra walked out through the bars.
He did not chase me.
And I am sure he understands that if ever there is news or report of my trespass, there will be jail waiting for a burglar.
That’s just the way it is here. They want some, they get some. They want everything free, but they are too lazy to work on it. Such as, they want money off Sierra but they know pee and poo can be smelly and they are too lazy to clean up, they don’t want the hard part, and that’s why it’s smart to leave that cat outside.
It’s just that now they know I am not some sort of China doll with two buns on each side with empty head, though their oh-so-manly ego will prevent them from telling someone else.
And that they shouldn’t believe anything they hear, especially if it comes from a woman with mouth made of garbage.
And that if they ever grow any idea to make something out of my thing, here’s the answer: Over my dead body.
What beautiful view it is today, when I looked out the window.