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| 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.
