Cameron O’Malley

The other night, as I entered the Main Street Skytrain station, I saw a small old man hunkered down just outside the fare gates.

“Spare some money for a bed tonight?” He had a trimmed white beard and a ball cap.

I stepped up to him and reached into my back pocket for my streetfolk money.

“How are you doin’ sir?”

“Okay, I guess.” He sounded tired, and his expression was worried.

I noticed something in his lap swaddled in a blanket. A little head peeked out between his clasped hands. At first I thought it was a stuffed toy, but it was a cat. Two little white ears angled amidst white, brown, and black patches. The little thing was hunkered down too.

“What’s your cat’s name?”

“Cameron O’Malley. Lotsa shelters won’t take cats.”

Cameron O’Malley sat there, bundled up like a precious cargo, the man’s little baby.

“Aw, he looks lovely.” I dug into my other pocket to give them a few more bucks. I had no idea what a shelter bed cost anymore.

“Aw, well I hope you and Cameron find a good place tonight.”

It’s impossible to know who provided the other more comfort, the small homeless calico cat who needed security on a cold city night, or the homeless man who held warm, furry unconditional love in his cold hands.