It's a scene I look forward to. It interrupts the alleyway behind one of the supermarkets where I park my box-truck. It repeats itself like clockwork and the context is almost always the same. Asphalt radiates the night's cold and the dumpsters smell like themselves. His brown compact car's small engine approaching sounds distinguished. The large delivery trucks' diesel engines idle in the morning's dark. In contrast, his car approaching sounds like a bumblebee. The cats also differentiate and recognize the small motor's nasally whine. They quickly run from their hiding places to the meeting spot beside a chain-link fence. They are always excited to see Cat-Man and they meow loudly as they scamper to the curb and wait for him. He carries supplies from his trunk, pours fresh water from a gallon jug, and leaves food for his friends. I hear him talking to them but can never make out what he says. He pays attention to each one and pets them lovingly. Sometimes there are several cats and sometimes only a few. He never seems hurried.
I always pause to take it in: an act of kindness in a cold world, a giver among a multitude of takers. One day I waited until he was returning to his car to talk to him. I asked him why he did it. He looked at me rather strangely and said, "Because they are hungry." He wasn't looking for attention or approval. He was not interested in having a dialogue about it. He bid me a good day and drove away. He always comes back. I always observe. It has become liturgy and a reminder for me. I am not sure that he knows, when he feeds the cats from his kind heart, in a way, he also feeds me.