Four Cats Along the Lana

I wake around five and do not get up immediately. The flat is hot and the light on the wall has already turned orange. By six I am outside in the denim jacket with both pockets heavy. I walk north along the Lana because the river gives the walk a direction, and because the cats are there.

The first one waits under the bridge: a grey male with a lump on his shoulder that nobody is allowed to touch. He sees me from thirty metres away and does not move. I put the food down on the flat part of the wall and step back. Only then does he come.

The ones that let me closer

Further on, near the market, there is a tortoiseshell who was clearly somebody's cat once. Torn ear, no fear at all. She walks against my leg and leaves hair on the denim, and I let her, and then I sit on a bench for a while so she can eat without being watched. I look at the water.

They do not need me. They know the sound of my shoes, which is not the same thing.

I bring what did not sell, cut small so nobody has to fight over it. My boss says nothing about this. There is a woman who feeds them in the morning; I have seen the paper plates. We have never met. We keep the same animals alive at different hours, and that is a kind of company.

There is one I have never touched. Black, thin, sits by the drainpipe and waits until I am fully gone. I have stopped taking it personally. Some evenings I only see that the food is gone, and that is enough information.

Before the shift begins

The walk ends at the small square where the lights come on. I go home, make coffee, and sit for twenty minutes before I start thinking about work. By nine I am asleep, the cats are somewhere under a car, and the bakery has already begun raising tomorrow's dough without me.

I have tried to explain to people that this is the only hour I like. Not because it is beautiful. It is not: the river is a canal and there is litter in it. Because nothing is asked of me. I walk, I put the food down, I step back, I leave.