They had been friends for what felt like centuries, and now he stood before his old mate, pleading for a handout.
George, I get it, but think, youre not a spring chicken any more. Where would I take you? I was a manager once, and now youd have me as a loader? chuckled Peter Pritchard, eyeing the silverhaired man.
George Milton gave a weary nod.
Hang on, George Ill ring you if something decent comes up. Dont get sour, old chap! Well break through! he shouted as he walked away.
It wasnt the first refusal in the past fortnight. George had grown oddly accustomed to the rejections, managing to keep his composure, though at first the disappointment hit hard.
They say a friend is known in trouble. George Milton had spent his life in senior posts, gathering a wide circle of acquaintances. When hardship arrived, however, the circle was empty.
As often happens, the new boss arrived with his own crew, and politely, but firmly, asked George to submit a resignation of his own accord. Retirement was only a few months away, yet nobody seemed to mind.
Thus he found himself suddenly without a prestigious job or income.
But the man refused to linger in gloom. In the town he knew many people he had once helped find work, finish studies, solve other knots.
Kirby wont turn me down! I helped him out big time once, George told his wife Ethel as he headed to another interview.
He returned from that interview sullen and mute:
That fellows called a friend, he sighed.
Ethel read his eyes like a weather map.
Come, George, sit down and have a bite. Whatever happens, its for the best, she said, laying the plate before him.
George nodded, then spent the evening leafing through his notebook of best contacts.
Help arrived when he was about to throw in the towel. A former driver, now the director of a modest meatprocessing plant, took him in.
I could use a supply manager. The works busy, but youll manage, the man said politely to his erstwhile supervisor.
George welcomed any work and the next day began his duties.
The plant sat on the outskirts of town, behind a steel fence where two sturdy workers were unloading a truck of meat. Not far away, a ragtag flock of local cats watched the ritual with solemn reverence.
George smiled at the striped whiskered creatures, which trotted in unison, their moustached faces leading a fresh parcel of delicacy.
Later it turned out the whole site was guarded by a whole gang of feline squatters who let no strangers near. Each cat was a little odd, bearing a prickly temperament. Whenever George tried to pet a stripedtailed fellow, the animal would hiss or dart away.
Rough lot you have here, George laughed, watching the kitchen maid Agnes haul leftovers to her charges.
Theyre not easy to handle. Even the kittens are standoffish, she replied, pointing to a pair of stripy youngsters tussling with their elders.
Soon George settled into his new role and learned each cats name. In turn, the gang grew to trust the silverhaired man, for he often slipped them bits of food. He owned no pets at home, yet he adored animals and always tried to aid them.
Every time George stepped out to a cigarette, the cats would encircle him, eyes steady, as if gauging whether he had a treat for them.
Six months drifted by like a lazy river. Autumn replaced the scorching summer, bringing damp winds and grey rain. The cats hid more, rarely showing in the yard, though they never missed a meal.
No one could explain how a lone kitten had appeared on the grounds. He kept to himself, apart from the gang, which neither accepted nor attacked him. Thin, black, with a bald patch on his back, the kitten won Georges hard heart.
George took his usual postlunch smoke on the yard steps, while the cats lounged on sunwarmed planks. From a shadowed corner a tiny, black, furry puff on spindly legs darted onto his feet.
Meow, it croaked, sneezing.
What sort of miracle is that? George asked the cats.
They stared indifferently; the newcomer was a different breed. All the others were brownstriped, their eyes yellowgreen. The kitten brushed against Georges leg, purring.
Look at that softness, George beamed.
Someone mustve left it here. Our lots keeping its distance, but its not being battered, Agnes said, stepping closer.
George eyed the streetwise gang warily; they could have easily harmed the little thing. He fetched a slice of sausage and offered it to the kitten, placing smaller portions a short distance away for the others. The gang devoured their share greedily, while the kitten lingered, rubbing against Georges hand before finally nibbling.
Well, arent you a gentle soul, George sang softly, gazing into the kittens bright eyes.
From then on, George fed the little creature he named Patch, then hurried off to his tasks.
Whos you taking lunches to? Ethel asked, eyebrows raised.
Its just a tiny, funny little kitten, George replied, a faint blush coloring his cheeks.
Maybe you could bring it home? Ethel suggested, though she knew her husband loathed indoor pets.
No, we dont need a cat, George muttered.
Suit yourself, Ethel shrugged.
One bleak, grey morning, as George trudged to work, a familiar voice called out, Oi! George, good to see you!
Peter Pritchard hurried toward him.
Found any work yet? he asked, extending a hand.
George gave a cold stare, nodded without moving his hand from his coat pocket, and kept walking. Hed long learned the price of their friendship.
Youre a wild one, Peter muttered, hopping into his car to escape the chill.
Patch, now plump and content, curled on a small board at the warehouse entrance, his black fur glistening like tiny needles in the frost.
They wont let you in, eh? Youre a beast, George growled toward a insulated shed where the cat gang huddled, their yellow eyes flickering, trying to decide whether to trust a human with food.
The radio that day warned of an incoming snowstorm.
Theyre saying a heavy snowfall is headed our way, George. How will you get to work tomorrow? a driver grumbled.
When the shift ended, the driver offered George a lift home. The sky was heavy, the first flakes already dusting the pavement.
Actually, Tom, could you drop me at the plant instead? George said abruptly.
Tom shrugged and turned the wheel.
Missing the old job, eh, George? he chuckled, pulling the car to a stop by the fence.
George didnt hear him. He sprinted into the yard, the snow already a thin white blanket. He ran to the planks where Patch usually perched and called, Kittykitkit!
The kitten didnt appear. The street cats kept a wary watch as George darted around the perimeter, shouting. Soon a flock of shaggy cats surrounded him, two crows perched on the fence, eyeing the scene as the snow fell in steady sheets.
Patch! Where are you? George cried, glancing anxiously.
Sensing the storm, the cats retreated into their shed, curling together for warmth, deciding that no human would bring them food today.
George turned away, slipping out of the yard.
By morning, as the meteorologists had promised, the town lay under a thick quilt of snow. Residents trudged through drifts, commenting, Well, thats a proper snowstorm, havent seen one like it in ages.
George, barely making it to work, arrived a little late. The groundskeeper had already cleared the paths, and the cats peeked from their shelter, eyes hopeful.
George placed a generous bowl of treats before them.
Here you go! Patch sends his regards, he whispered, smiling at the wary gang.
A joyful warmth rose in his chest, like the feeling of a child sliding down a hill with parents cheering. Perhaps the snow had loosened something inside him.
The previous night, the mischievous kitten had finally emerged from its hiding place at the very last moment, when George turned his back. He couldnt believe his eyes, lunged forward, and clutched the tiny creature, holding it close.
Good boy, Patch! At last youre found, my friend! he repeated, the kitten sniffling and sneezing all the way home, claws digging into his coat as if afraid to be left behind.
Ethel didnt even flinch at the sight of her husband returning with a new family member.
Did you finally decide to keep it? she asked, a sly smile playing on her lips.
I did. Imagine him out there alone in this blizzard, George replied, setting the shivering kitten gently on the windowsill.
The kitten nosed around, whiskers twitching as it explored its new world.
George watched, his eyes bright, while Ethel wrapped her arms around the stern, oncehard man she knew best. She alone understood the kindness that pulsed beneath his rough exterior.
The kitten perched on the sill, watching the snowcovered streets, where the man who chose him as a friend walked back toward the yard.
Their bondbetween a towering man and a tiny felinewas strange, unlike any human friendship, yet it held no room for betrayal, deceit, or flattery. It was a trust worth waiting for, believing in, and nurturing.
