It was a warm Thursday afternoon, and the sun was shining down on “Hot Dog Street,” a name given to the place by the locals. The name was coined from the black-haired lady at the corner, according to the residents.

“She makes the best hot dogs I’ve ever tasted!” exclaimed a snub-nosed Englishman and so the street was named Hot Dog Street in her honour.

It was a quarter to six on a typical business day evening. Some children were playing football outside their house, while some were playing badminton.

At the bottom right of the street, a white, furry cat sat on the terrace of her house, licking her paw. Every afternoon, and sometimes until late evening, she would sit there, eyeing every passerby. Today, her pose was different; she was facing west, looking toward the corner of the street — which was essentially a dead end, hardly concentrating on a black spot that seemed to move but was, for the most part, still.

“Maybe it’s a cat,” she made an assumption and then something blocked her view, a tennis ball at its full speed was coming towards her. She lowered herself, narrowly dodging the ball. After a while Amy her owner came rushing through the balcony door.

“Sweetie, are you okay?” she asked while running her fingers down through her white fur. She was taken inside and was forced to rest on the maroon couch.

“Take care, Smokey, I’ll be back soon with your favourite meal,” she felt a heavy yet comfortable pat on her back.

“Mum, I’m going out for a while,” she could hear Amy walking towards the kitchen.

“I’ll be back in an hour,” and with a loud bang, the door was slammed back into position.

It was her chance to go out and solve the mystery of the black spot. Slowly and carefully Smokey tiptoed towards the kitchen door and peeped. Mrs George wasn’t there, what a great afternoon it was — everything was in her favour. Without wasting a second, she left the house and was off to the corner of Hot Dog Street. The air was filled with the stinky smell until she realised where it came from. There were large trash cans placed here and there on the surrounding which were heaps of garbage. A colony of houseflies, mosquitoes and bugs were humming everywhere, some even tried to enter Smokey’s mouth. All she could do was wave her paw to keep them away.

“Hey there missy, how are you?” came a voice.

“Someone might be hiding behind those trash cans,” she thought, and before she could reach to find out who it was, a black shadow appeared. It was a street cat, walking as though the dusty bacterial path was a stage and he was the model showing his best.

“Who are you?” came the question from Smokey’s mouth.

“Myself, Charles the king of the street cat’s colony, by the way, you don’t need to bow as per the rules, we are honoured to have a guest,” he exclaimed and lowered his head.

“Oh, thank you,” Smokey muttered.

“Your name, lady?”

“Smokey,” she replied.

“Oh, I see you are the pet cat of that girl named Amy, right?” there was an astonishment in his tone.

Smokey could see the houseflies hovering above Charles’s head, and the next moment she caught sight of something disgusting, there were fleas on Charles’s fur, not some but many of them. Eww! If Amy saw a single one on her, she would be shouting all the way through the Hot Dog Street.

“Oh God, these fleas,” she could hear Charles whispering, now he was trying to scratch his back with his paw.

“How long have you been living here?” Charles tried to change the topic.

“Probably two and a half years, not sure.”

“Who’s there?” she pointed towards something near the wall.

“Oh, that’s mother cat, she might be finding her children,” he replied carelessly.

Out came a white cat, whose white fur was not white anymore. Smokey wondered what was the last time the mother cat took a bath. Charles whistled and the mother cat trotted towards them.

“It was nice to meet you Smokey, Ricky and Chicky might be hiding somewhere or else they would have also greeted you,” mother cat said with a smile.

“Who are Ricky and Chicky?” asked Smokey.

“Those stupid fools are my kids, just fooling here and there trying to avoid the training, but I will find them,” she said.

“So you and the mother cat along with her children only live here?” she asked Charles.

“Nope, many more cats are also the residents, but they are off to the next street. The lady living in the brown house is going to serve them food,” answered Charles.

“So where do you guys sleep, on this heap of garbage?” she pointed towards the trash cans.

Charles felt insulted, but he didn’t show, and spoke in his robust demeanour, “Some of us just lay down under the cars, others spend the night by sneaking into someone’s garage and the rest of us just lay where we felt comfortable.”

Smokey nodded, imagining the entire scenario.

“Would you like to eat this?” he offered her a piece of chicken. It was rotten and smelled so bad that Smokey felt as if she would vomit right there.

“No, thanks,” she gently refused with a smile.

“I would have to go now, Amy would be back soon. Have a good day!” And off Smokey went towards the George house.

As Smokey returned home that day, her fur a little less pristine than usual, she couldn’t help but reflect on the street cats’ lives and the world they inhabited. She had learnt how different their lives were from hers, one filled with freedom, yet tangled in the grime and struggles of survival. Despite her brief encounter, Smokey realised how fortunate she was to have a warm home, delicious food and love from her owner, Amy. That day, she felt more content than ever, grateful for her life of comfort, peace and care. n

Published in Dawn, Young World, December 21st, 2024