Every morning I drive to a parking lot near my home. I pop the trunk and dish out food in two baskets that I lower over the side of the bridge to cats who are waiting down below. It’s a nutty routine, but I look forward to getting out in the air and sun, and walking the beat-up timbers of the bridge, above the sparkling creek. I say hello to the ravens that wait impatiently on the fence for a biscuit. I take a deep breath and feel good about my mission to give these cats a better life. And then…
Once in a while I’m brought back down to earth by someone driving by, who opens the window and yells at me. A recent run-in is fairly typical.
“Hey, young lady!” shouted the elderly dude in a jacked-up pick-up truck. He’s not wearing a MAGA hat but I suspect it’s on the passenger seat. “Stop feeding those damn cats! They are a nuisance!”
I turn my back and count to ten. You never know who’s carrying a gun these days.
Thankfully this doesn’t happen often. Mostly people passing by are just curious, ask me what I’m doing – even thank me for doing it. But I’m always on my guard.
This is because my coastal town – like most of America – is pretty divided. There’s a heavy tribe (my tribe) of artists, writers and the like – people seeking the beautiful surroundings and relative peace. And then there is the farming tribe, people with their roots deep in the coastal soil, who dislike the liberals and the tekkies who have invaded their town, and wish America would go back to the way it was, and become “great again.”
It’s a real problem when everyone insists on defining a person by their tribe. Where is there room to cross aisles, connect and grow? And who is one of the worst offenders on that score? Me. I avoid members of That Other Tribe like the plague.
And yet…
A few months ago, a well-dressed, elderly white man approached me as I was preparing food. He asked what I was doing and I told him that our volunteers feed homeless cats in several locations around the coast every day. He began to reach into his pocket and I had a momentary fear that perhaps it was for a hidden pistol. Instead he pulled out his wallet and handed me a five dollar bill.
“I love cats, too. Always had ’em. I’m sure you need money for their food.” He smiled and proceeded into the cafe.
This scene has repeated itself countless times in the last few months. Sometimes if I’m not right at my car, I return to find a $5 bill in the trunk. Through little bits of conversation with him – always very brief – I’ve learned that he and his wife moved here from Spokane to be closer to their kids, sold a beautiful property on a lake and could only afford a small house here, and he loves cats. I still don’t know his name.
But in my mind, I thought he was clearly one of MY tribe – a kind-hearted person with elevated values. Why else would he insist on donating every time he saw me?
But of course it’s never that simple.
One day he was marveling at the proximity of the ravens who caw at me in the parking lot until I toss them a treat.
“They are so close!” he exclaimed.
“Yes, they have no fear of me anymore,” I laugh.
“Is the meat stringy?” he asked.
I was flummoxed. “Stringy…?”
“Yeah, you know – when you shoot them? I have always hunted game birds.”
He could tell by my expression that I was horrified.
“But I guess you probably don’t do that kind of thing…” he added quickly, before shuffling off toward the cafe.
I was both bummed and confused. How could someone so kind to certain animals hunt birds? Since that time my uncertainly about my benefactor only increased after he told me about his beloved, late Maine Coon cat. They didn’t let him outside, he said, because they had declawed him. Once again I caught my breath. This is something I always considered akin to chopping off the tops of fingers. Once again I was repulsed, and confused.
It was New Year’s Day morning and the only business open in the parking lot was the cafe. I was there, dutifully feeding the cats, and spied my bird-killing acquaintance trudging across the parking lot. He approached me, hand outstretched with another $5 bill. He smiled and wished me happy new year. I told him I was surprised to see him there on a holiday.
He told me then that his wife has Alzheimer’s, and he was her primary caregiver. So going out for coffee and taking their dogs for a walk was the only thing he really did for himself.
He paused and looked downcast, and I felt his pain. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t usually talk about this.” I told him it was more than okay, and I was glad to listen.
In that moment, the question of tribe membership didn’t matter a damn. We both love cats, and are both in the human tribe. That was more important than him being a hunter, or even a member of MAGA.
Or was he?
As I said goodbye and said I hoped 2025 was great for us both, he surprised me by replying, “Oh I’m sure it will be, with the new guy in the White House.”
And then he grinned and winked – a gesture I’m still not sure the meaning of. Was he serious? Or joking? But it doesn’t matter, we were on common ground.