I staggered backward a couple of steps, as did Simon. The guard was tall and wore a uniform, black pants and a white shirt. He had a thick beard and a bright red turban around his head. He also held a nightstick.
“We were just cutting through on our way home from school,” Simon sputtered.
I was so glad he spoke, because I didn’t think I could mumble out a word.
“We weren’t going to take anything!” Simon exclaimed.
“Were you planning on stealing rocks?” the guard asked with a heavy accent.
We opened our hands and the rocks fell to the ground.
“Tell me your names,” the guard ordered.
“I’m Simon.”
“And I’m…I’m Taylor. But we weren’t doing anything,” I said.
“Yes, you were,” he said. “You were protecting the cats.”
“What?”
“I saw what happened. Those boys—those bad boys—were tossing rocks at the cats, and you two stopped them. You are very brave boys.”
“Um…thanks,” I said.
“I am Singh. Mr. Singh.” He smiled, stepped forward and extended his hand in greeting.
I hesitated. Was this a trick to grab us?
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Simon said as they shook hands.
“Me too,” I offered, taking his hand once I’d seen him safely release Simon’s. “And thanks for saving us like that.”
“You looked like you were doing well without me,” Mr. Singh said.
Either he hadn’t seen what was going to happen or he was being kind.
“Do you own this place?” Simon asked.
“Not me. I am only the security guard, the soldier responsible for all that is here, including the cats.”
“I guess the guy who owns the place wouldn’t want anybody hurting his cats,” I said.
“I do not think he even knows about the cats,” said Mr. Singh.
“Then they’re your cats?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Nobody ever owns a cat. Ever.”
“I owned a cat,” I said.
He shook his head again. “No, you did not.”
“Yes, I did,” I protested. “His name was Blinky, and he lived in our house for eight years.”
“He may have lived with you, but you did not own him. You can own a dog, but not a cat. Not any more than you can own a person or an eagle…or a tiger.”
“I’ve heard about people owning tigers,” I said. “You know, tame, trained tigers.”
He smiled. “I am from India, and I know tigers. They can be in a circus, but the best a tiger will ever be is less wild, not really tame, only pretending to be trained until the right moment arrives when it will become a tiger once more.”
“I’ve seen tigers that are really well behaved. Once my mother took me to a tiger show when we were in Las Vegas on holidays,” I said.
Then I remembered that a few months after we’d been there, I’d read in the paper how one of the tigers almost killed its owner, the guy who had raised it from a cub.
“These cats,” he said, gesturing around. “I give them food, I say nice words to them. Do you know why they do not kill me and use me as a meal?”
I wasn’t sure if he expected an answer. It was a strange question. Cats didn’t kill people.
“They do not kill me because I am bigger than them. Much bigger. If not?” He drew his finger across his throat and made a slashing sound. “Just curry-flavored kitty chow is all I would be.” He paused as if he was thinking. “You boys came in through one of the holes in the fence.”
“Yes,” I said, feeling guilty.
“You do not need to do that anymore,” he said.
“We won’t,” I said. “I promise.”
“Me too!” Simon said.
“Good boys. Rather than coming in through one of the holes in the fence, you should come in through the front gate. I will let you in if you wish to come through the yard. You are good boys.”
“Thank you,” Simon said.
“Yeah, thanks.”
“Now come. I will walk you to the other side. We must make sure those bad boys are gone. If they are not, I will hit them with my nightstick or maybe we will all throw rocks at them!” He laughed, and we laughed with him. “Or maybe I will pretend that I am on a cricket pitch and they are wickets!”
He made a motion like he was throwing a ball, and we laughed again. I wasn’t sure what a wicket was, but I was sure I liked this guy.