If you are a stray cat, Malta is the place to be. They don’t catch you and kill you like they do in so many other places. They’ll fix you so you don’t have children and then they’ll let you go. It’s not the best life, but the weather is usually quite nice and you can find shelter somewhere when it rains. People sometimes come and give you a pet, if you let them. Even getting a full meal isn’t too difficult. There aren’t many birds or mice, but there is the Maltese Catman to feed you.

I met Cat Man selling cat food on Tower Road in Sliema on my last trip in May this year (2005). He was standing in that strange driveway that doesn’t seem to go anywhere within a short distance of the Strand. He was early in the morning and kind of chilly and he was wearing a gray suit jacket. Of medium height, with a slim build, and slightly long hair that’s just turning gray, he handed me a plastic package. “Feed the cats?” he asked softly. I couldn’t resist and gave him a pound, or the equivalent of 3 dollars, and told him to keep the change. He offered me God’s blessings as I continued on my way.

I didn’t ask her name. I casually mentioned meeting Charlie, the man who works at the front desk of the boarding house where he was staying, and he said that everyone knew him. He was not from Malta, but he was probably from England or the United States and had a flat near the University. He didn’t seem to have a job except the route he had from Valletta to Paceville feeding cats.

I could feel him becoming a character in a novel and I asked some merchants about him. Charlie was right. Everyone seemed to know and like him. He was a lovable eccentric as the bird woman of Trafalgar Square. One man speculated that he was a wealthy heir to a family fortune in London and that he had come to Malta to keep away from people seeking money from him. The general consensus was that he lived off the change from the people who bought him food.

Several days later I was walking through the park at Tigne Point on my way to the Crown Point Hotel where I had an interview. The Cat Man was crouched by a park bench surrounded by what appeared to be fifty crying cats. He had a skinny calico on one shoulder and a hissing black Tom on the other, with dozens of people trying to get into his shopping bag or jostling to rub against his legs. Mick Jagger couldn’t have had more loving fans. I was touched. Even more so because many seemed to be malnourished. What amazed me was that some of the skinnier ones seemed more interested in being petted than eating. The shopping bag was finally emptied and the Catman stood up and sat on the park bench. I watched him pick up an empty container and wondered if he would wait until they were done. For the first time he seemed to notice my presence and we exchanged greetings and I went to my appointment.

That was the last time I saw him. I sure hope to meet him again.