The Strays of Dingbo
Feral cats scatter at the fall of my footsteps. The walk home from work every night is characterized by this scattering, this feline kaleidoscope of movement. Thin, mangy, and skittish, they carry on their subversive little lives in the moonlight, always just out of human reach. I think of my fat, ginger tabby, who resides in the lap of luxury at my mother's home back in the U.S. The last time my mother and I Skyped, there he was on her desk, purring and stretching and yawning on the computer screen, just out of my reach. He never has to scavenge for food, or seek shelter in the rain, or run for his life. He is pampered and safe, a world away.
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Here, strays populate the old, tree-lined neighborhood. Dingbo is full of small family restaurants, shops, and apartment buildings, a jovial place where people pull tables and chairs to the sidewalks to drink and play Mahjong on hot summer evenings, a place where the laughter carries and children play unattended. There is a true feeling of community-it's safe and friendly, and they've even accepted me. Regardless, the life of a stray cat here is still a study in survival. Recently a litter was born, and the tiny balls of cuteness and vulnerability have been just out of my grasp. I've yet to entice one of the furry creatures into my embrace, though I keep trying. There is only one person in Dingbo with this cat-charming talent, and I don't know his name.
I avoided him at first, this beggar. Every night as I returned from work, I'd cross the street near the sleeping restaurant, where he camped on the steps with his dirty sacks, and then cross back again, so I didn't have to deal with his upturned palm, the nagging feeling of my guilt. But one night I forgot, and as I passed him and his open palm, I actually looked at him, looked into that crinkled face, right into his eyes, and...he smiled at me. I was stunned, because what I saw in those eyes was deeply human, kind, and full of joy.  He charmed me, and I've never crossed the street to avoid him since. So began the nightly ritual, the walk home to Dingbo with a stop at the restaurant stoop to deposit a few yuan in his hand, the unlikely magic of his smile, the feeling of genuine interaction. Curious, I studied my new muse.
Roughly sixty to sixty-five years old, the beggar is hunched in a near-perfect arch, the bony ridge of his spine peeking out of his shirt, the lower lumbar a raised and gnarled knot, as if a tail had been lopped off long ago. I imagine he's in some form of pain as he shuffles the sidewalk in his slippers, his head craning up. Bent over like this, he's about four feet tall. I've never seen him fully vertical. His hands appear frozen into arthritic claws, and he is, of course, quite thin. His salt and pepper hair is wispy and long, the skin so pale it's luminescent, moony. Though he laughs quite frequently, he doesn't speak as we do, instead emitting moaning sounds, either high or low-pitched depending upon the situation. When he greets me, it's with a high-pitched "Aaaay?" I've never heard him speak an actual word, Chinese or otherwise, and he doesn't respond to any of my comments or questions in Chinese, leading me to suspect either a developmental disability or deafness. Lately, he's abandoned his suit of rags in favor of a pair of faded, flowered women's pajamas. I've no idea where he goes to sleep at night, no idea how he takes care of himself. Despite this hard-scrabble existence, he's a happy fellow, and he waves to me when he sees me turn the corner onto our street, long before I near his perch on the restaurant steps. "Nihao," I always say, placing the coins in his twisted hand. "Aaaaaay!" he replies, a big grin spreading across his face. I ask:  how could someone NOT be charmed?
One night, I came upon an astonishing sight: a cluster of strays surrounding the beggar, as he opened up tins of food. Eagerly they mewled, twisting and rubbing against his legs, as he bowed chuckling to the dish. I was mesmerized as I watched him sit down to pet his feasting friends-these scruffy orphans who always ran from me. My man was the Pied Piper of stray cats-in a motley of rags, playing a tin-can tune, luring them not to their deaths, but to comfort and sustenance. Apparently, he speaks their language. It was then I realized that I loved him-he, the unwanted-in turn, caretaker of the unwanted.
This evening at the dumpster, the gray-striped kitten skittered away from a piece of fallen garbage as I approached, then halted under a bush. He plunked down on his haunches, wrapped a dainty tail to his paws, then tilted his head, staring at me curiously. He was just out of my reach. With the moon riding high in the sky, I gasped when I saw his brothers and sisters emerge from the shadows. I watched them play, as kittens do, for about ten minutes before heading inside. I know that somehow they will be alright, somehow they will survive. They've got friends here in Dingbo.
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written by Ed Hardy, Mlb hat , July 28, 2010
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