Man with the Can by Donal Mahoney

 

Image (c) Carol Bales

Every morning

before the sun comes up

there’s a feral cat on our deck

waiting for a can of Fancy Feast.

It’s been that way for years.

It’s not always the same cat

because feral cats come and go

but barring a downpour of rain

or an overnight pile of snow

there’s always a cat

outside our door, looking

through the screen

waiting for service,

sometimes licking its lips.

The same cat can appear

at the door for weeks,

months, even years.

They’re close friends

with my wife but not with me.

We aren’t enemies but

the cats favor my wife.

I understand why.

The cats find our house, I think,

not because the cat underground

says the food’s good but 

somehow the cats know

my wife was a farm girl

that barn cats loved before

she went off to college and

took a job in the city.

I think they begin to believe

my wife is one of them

because almost every summer

she comes out in the afternoon

and sits on the deck and

the morning cat comes back

over the fence and hops up

on her lap for a serious petting.

Over the years the cats and I

have been acquaintances at best.

They know I’m the one who puts 

the can out before dawn

while my wife sleeps in.

But not one of them has ever

cozied up to me, the caterer,

or why not call it as it is,

the man with the can.

I have no problem with that

even if the best greeting

I can expect is caterwauling

on the rare morning I’m slow

popping the lid.