Amos

A short story about love, loss and penury by André Krüger

People who are poor are the same as people who are rich. But they do think differently, remember differently. Perhaps it is a necessary consequence of not having.

The man was well aware of this, being poor. He knew that was why he thought about his clothes, remembered where he bought and how much he paid for them. So he well knew he bought the grey t-shirt because it was on sale and marked down. As a rule he did not wear clothes with names or messages printed on them, not wanting to be one of those exploited more than absolutely necessary, but the shirts were cheap enough for him to break the rule.

He was at the Hypermarket buying marked down vegetables when he found the display of sale clothing. They were on a table, not as neatly folded as when they were set out hours before. Other bargain hunters had been busy. Shirts had been lifted and studied, held at arm’s length, measured against torsos, mentally compared to familiar bodies, dropped back. He thought for a good long while, walked away, came back, calculated what he could afford. Then he bought three t-shirts — one light blue, one dark blue, one grey. He took them home, displayed them to the woman, explained what a bargain they were. She nodded. She was not as enthusiastic as he. Not having, making do with less, weighed more heavily in her than on him. She found it tedious, and bargain hunting demeaning and beneath her dignity.

The grey shirt became his favourite.

Not long after the man and the woman adopted Amos, a formerly stray cat. He had been rescued by someone else and given a home. He was not a young cat, the green-eyed grey tabby. He had something of the elegant Bengal and the wild ocelot about his coat, with dappled markings and almost rosettes. He accepted his new home, but it would not quite accept him. There was tension between him and the two incumbent felines. You could hardly blame Amos. When he arrived he was confronted by a pair of entrenched Persians. They were pedigreed and pampered and spoilt. They were snobbish and haughty, and almost astonishingly dim-witted. They were also revolted to discover that they were expected to share their luxuries with a common street cat.

No wonder he took to ambushing them at their feeding bowls, no wonder he gave them the odd clouting.

In no time the Persians were living in fear. They visibly quaked, if only more to impress upon their humans their degree of daily terror. As for Amos, most of the time he ignored them. Except for those times he would take a swipe at them with something that looked like disdain.

Highly strung as they were, their strings constantly hummed from his careless plucking.

The humans decided: he had to find a new home.

The man and the woman heard of it and welcomed Amos. There were cats and dogs in their house already, but they were mostly even-tempered. Amos was older than the others. He was used to going his own way but generally, except for supercilious Persian cats, easy going. Being self-possessed, the dogs were weary of him. They gave him a wide berth, recognizing in his walk and his stare an accomplished adversary better left alone. He mostly ignored them too. Perhaps that unnerved them.

Amos was a cat with knowledge of life. He had lived, stood his ground and survived alone for a long time so paid little heed to other animals. Usually. But he was not above protecting others. Once the man saw him intervene in a feline squabble, placing himself between the large aggressor and smaller victim, immediately defusing the confrontation.

That was an exception. Normally he lived in his own world, quite aloof.

Even if he was middle aged, he enjoyed playing with the man, though not with the other animals. For that he had been a street cat too long. He did not regard the others as either competition or mates, at best fellow travellers on the short journey of life.

So Amos found his home.

One day the man picked him up. It was a daily ritual, a greeting, an act of friendship. His coat was as soft and thick as always, but his spine was unusually bony. Amos, normally a sturdy cat, had lost weight.

The man was worried. He told the woman. They kept a close eye on him but Amos ate well and seemed untroubled.

Until, days later, he refused food. No treat, no tasty morsel could tempt him.

The veterinarian examined him and drew blood for testing. Amos had to stay the night.

By the next day the veterinarian was still too unsure to make a diagnosis, but admitted that the condition was serious. Amos could go home in the meantime but would have to return in a few days for more tests.

Back at home the other animals sniffed Amos. They did this when one of them returned from the dreaded vet. They knew the smell, and when it entered the house they became cautious and suspicious.

Amos was unmoved.

The man picked him up and reassured him. His eyes were clear and alert, but the man imagined he saw weariness there. He hoped it was just that, his imagination.

But the cat would not eat.

The next round of tests brought bad news. Amos had feline AIDS.

How was that possible? the man wanted to know. All the other animals were healthy and Amos did not wander, not anymore, not since he found his home. No, the vet explained, he probably had it for a long time, almost certainly got infected when he was still a street cat, possibly by fighting with others. Was there something to be done? asked the man. There was always hope, said the vet.

Amos stayed home for one more night. The next day he was admitted to the vet’s surgery so that he could be fed intravenously. The woman visited him before work, the man after. They took the man’s grey t-shirt for Amos to sleep on so that he could be reminded of his home, of being loved.

The man was glad to give him his favourite shirt.

You share what you have with those you love and care for.

The next day Amos was still reactive. He rubbed his head against the man’s hand when he visited. But by the next visit, that evening, he did not want to be, anymore. Amos had lost interest in life. He slept, curled up on that grey t-shirt, now the size of his existence. With animal understanding and patience, he awaited the end. It grieved the man to see him so, yet he was grateful that the cat had the shirt, something of his, right to the end. Small comfort as the shirt was to the animal, it was good for the man.

With regret, the vet let the man and the woman know that Amos had slipped away quietly during the night. He sent flowers, along with Amos’s ashes, a week later.

Later the man went to the vet’s surgery to ask for his grey t-shirt. It was being washed, the receptionist explained. She asked him to come back later. But when he did it could still not be found. The staff were perplexed, at a loss to explain why. The shirt had simply disappeared. The man said not to worry. It didn’t really matter, but to please let him know if it turned up. Even if he needed the shirt, he could go without it if he had to.

You share what you have with those you love and care for.

The shirt never came to light.

The man still had the light blue and the dark blue shirts.

Months later the dark blue one disappeared. He asked about it. The woman said she did not know what became of it. They were talking less and less. The man suspected more and more. When other things disappeared his suspicions firmed. He realized she had given the shirt and other things to her lover.

You share what you have with those you love and care for.

A year passed. The man was alone again. He had adopted an older cat. Its eyes were very green, its coat shaded black.

The man remembered his grey shirt, where he bought it and what it cost, but more often he thought of Amos and the other animals in his old house, of everything he had had to leave behind and abandon. People who are poor are the same as people who are rich. But they do think differently, remember differently.

However, hurt is hurt, for rich and poor.

Misery cares nothing for circumstance.

André Krüger is a South African living in Johannesburg. Because he always wanted to be a writer, he has been a theatre usher, a furniture salesman, a translator and editor, a doctor’s receptionist, a bookshop worker, a quasi-professional student, a lawyer, a business owner and a failed romantic. He holds a Masters degree in Philosophy as well as degrees in Law. He is the author of two published novels. He is currently teaching at the University of Johannesburg. He often thinks not only is he not the hero of his own story, but he does not even have a speaking part in it.