been there, after all. Later on, the skinheads swarmed Yonge Street and broke a few store windows. The
Planet,
predictably, reacted as if it had been a full-blown riot.
Inside the paper, Nick Matas, the city columnist, had written about race and the police, too, and his column read as if it had been dictated by Josiah Brand. I called him, but he wasn’t in, so I left an irate message on his voicemail, pointing out that not all police are racist. I ended up sounding like some right-wing fanatic, but I was too angry to care.
I had errands to run, and some stuff to bring to Andy, so I decided to take the car and try to find a cheap parking lot in the general vicinity of the hospital. When I went back to the garage, I found Maggie holding court for some of the neighbourhood cats, including Elwy, whom she insists on calling Bow-Tie, after the markings on his chest. The cats like Maggie because she sometimes buys them sardines. The strays scattered as I approached, but Elwy stayed, taking place of pride on her lap.
“I see my old fleabag is two-timing me again,” I said.
“Oh, he’s a good boy,” Maggie said, stroking the top of his head just the way he likes it. “He’s got enough love to share.”
Clearly, she was having one of her good days.
“I’m sorry, I forgot about bringing you books.”
“T.C., told me about your friend,” she said. “How is he now?”
I told her all about it, probably babbling a bit. She just listened until I wound down.
“He will be all right,” she said, firmly.
“Well, I guess so. He was lucky, I suppose.”
“Luck happens to people who deserve it,” she corrected me.
“He deserves it,” I said.
A big old grey dog came loping down the alley, nose down and tail wagging with the joy of discovery, his legs moving slightly offline. Maggie cringed. Elwy hissed and jumped to the fence. I reached out and grabbed the hound before he got to them, and he immediately began to sniff. I sidestepped the nose, laughing.
“Dibdin, come here,” called his owner, a chunky, cheerful woman in early middle age, dressed in crisp Bermuda shorts and sensible shoes. She carried a large leash, and was a bit out of breath. “Dibdin, behave yourself! Naughty dog. Heel. Heel!”
She caught up with him and grabbed his collar.
“I’m so sorry.” she said, in a British accent. She clipped the leash to his collar. “He’s not dangerous, actually. He’s just got a bit of a mind of his own.”
“No problem.” I said, giving the animal a pat. He turned to gaze soulfully at me as his owner dragged him away.
“What a face,” I laughed. “See him making eyes at us?”
“I don’t like dogs.” Maggie said. “They scare me.”
“Well, I can see why, living the way you do, but he was, pardon the expression, a pussycat.”
“My husband, Jack, had dogs.” she said. “Big mean ones. Dobermans he let out at night. I couldn’t even go for a walk on our own property after dark.”
“That’s terrible,” I said.
“I like cats.” Maggie continued, smoothing Elwy’s fur. “They’re independent, like me. Right, Bow-Tie?”
“You’re going to make me change that cat’s name,” I said. “He’s going to develop multiple personalities.”
“Maybe he already has.” she said. “One for home and one for the alley. When I lived in Milwaukee, I had a cat. She was a pretty little Persian, used to sleep on a pillow and let me brush her, but she got out one night.”
“Ran away?”
“Dogs killed her. Tore her to bits.”
“Oh.”
“I felt like that cat, then. I was pretty and petted, but I wasn’t ever allowed to stray. Now I’m an alley cat. Like Bow-Tie. Tough as a boot, living on my wits.”
“Don’t you ever just want to come inside? I’m sure you could apply for housing.”
“No name, no pack drill, my father used to say. If you don’t have an address, no one can find you.”
“Do you ever wonder about your children?”
“Sometimes. Especially my
Planet,
predictably, reacted as if it had been a full-blown riot.
Inside the paper, Nick Matas, the city columnist, had written about race and the police, too, and his column read as if it had been dictated by Josiah Brand. I called him, but he wasn’t in, so I left an irate message on his voicemail, pointing out that not all police are racist. I ended up sounding like some right-wing fanatic, but I was too angry to care.
I had errands to run, and some stuff to bring to Andy, so I decided to take the car and try to find a cheap parking lot in the general vicinity of the hospital. When I went back to the garage, I found Maggie holding court for some of the neighbourhood cats, including Elwy, whom she insists on calling Bow-Tie, after the markings on his chest. The cats like Maggie because she sometimes buys them sardines. The strays scattered as I approached, but Elwy stayed, taking place of pride on her lap.
“I see my old fleabag is two-timing me again,” I said.
“Oh, he’s a good boy,” Maggie said, stroking the top of his head just the way he likes it. “He’s got enough love to share.”
Clearly, she was having one of her good days.
“I’m sorry, I forgot about bringing you books.”
“T.C., told me about your friend,” she said. “How is he now?”
I told her all about it, probably babbling a bit. She just listened until I wound down.
“He will be all right,” she said, firmly.
“Well, I guess so. He was lucky, I suppose.”
“Luck happens to people who deserve it,” she corrected me.
“He deserves it,” I said.
A big old grey dog came loping down the alley, nose down and tail wagging with the joy of discovery, his legs moving slightly offline. Maggie cringed. Elwy hissed and jumped to the fence. I reached out and grabbed the hound before he got to them, and he immediately began to sniff. I sidestepped the nose, laughing.
“Dibdin, come here,” called his owner, a chunky, cheerful woman in early middle age, dressed in crisp Bermuda shorts and sensible shoes. She carried a large leash, and was a bit out of breath. “Dibdin, behave yourself! Naughty dog. Heel. Heel!”
She caught up with him and grabbed his collar.
“I’m so sorry.” she said, in a British accent. She clipped the leash to his collar. “He’s not dangerous, actually. He’s just got a bit of a mind of his own.”
“No problem.” I said, giving the animal a pat. He turned to gaze soulfully at me as his owner dragged him away.
“What a face,” I laughed. “See him making eyes at us?”
“I don’t like dogs.” Maggie said. “They scare me.”
“Well, I can see why, living the way you do, but he was, pardon the expression, a pussycat.”
“My husband, Jack, had dogs.” she said. “Big mean ones. Dobermans he let out at night. I couldn’t even go for a walk on our own property after dark.”
“That’s terrible,” I said.
“I like cats.” Maggie continued, smoothing Elwy’s fur. “They’re independent, like me. Right, Bow-Tie?”
“You’re going to make me change that cat’s name,” I said. “He’s going to develop multiple personalities.”
“Maybe he already has.” she said. “One for home and one for the alley. When I lived in Milwaukee, I had a cat. She was a pretty little Persian, used to sleep on a pillow and let me brush her, but she got out one night.”
“Ran away?”
“Dogs killed her. Tore her to bits.”
“Oh.”
“I felt like that cat, then. I was pretty and petted, but I wasn’t ever allowed to stray. Now I’m an alley cat. Like Bow-Tie. Tough as a boot, living on my wits.”
“Don’t you ever just want to come inside? I’m sure you could apply for housing.”
“No name, no pack drill, my father used to say. If you don’t have an address, no one can find you.”
“Do you ever wonder about your children?”
“Sometimes. Especially my
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