We have a cat at the factory now.
She showed up last winter. Skinny. Sat by the back door and didn't move. Xiao Liu has a soft heart. Broke off half a sausage and put it on the ground. The cat sniffed it, ate it, and stayed.
Came back the next day. Then every day after that.
We put a cardboard box out by the door with some old rags inside. She moved in. The noise in the workshop doesn't bother her—machines running full blast and she's curled up in the box, asleep. Old Zheng says she's hard of hearing. I think she just doesn't care.
Sometimes during lunch break, a few of the workers squat down by the door to play with her. She's not super affectionate, but she'll roll over for a belly rub once in a while. Most of the time she just squints in the sun. Xiao Liu says: "This cat knows how to live better than we do."
Someone suggested giving her a name. Xiao Liu said "Socks." I said it fits—good name for a factory cat.
A couple of weeks later, Socks had three kittens. Tiny little things. Xiao Liu found another box, lined it with rags, and put it next to the first one. Now there are two cardboard boxes by the back door—one big cat, three kittens, lined up in a row.
Old Zheng walked by and glanced at them. Didn't say anything. Kept walking. A few steps later he muttered: "That's three more mouths to feed." Couldn't tell if he meant it as a complaint or not. Xiao Liu said: "I'll buy the cat food. Not using the factory budget."
Old Zheng didn't answer. Kept walking.