It’s Sunday morning and Gandolff da Gray Cat is scratching at my sliding screen door. Gandolff is unusually gentle and trusting for a neighborhood cat. He looks old, worn and scruffy. In bright sun, his dull gray fur has surprising high lights of red dirt stains from hence he roams. Soft green eyes stare behind stiff black and white whiskers. A thin tail signals his unexpected approach.

Not attractive nor particularly friendly, Gandolff is a wandering cat easily ignored until he chooses to befriend you. No particular neighbor seems to claim him as their own. He simply likes to wander and visit as he so chooses.

Then he makes his presence known with seemingly little effort, yet very clear intention. Subtly, he refuses to be ignored. Before I knew it, I was feeding him my hurricane emergency stash of canned tuna served with oatmeal from breakfast and mashed cooked carrots. His plastic water bowl was carefully selected from my recycle bin. I found a nice pet appropriate dinner bowl formerly belonging to “Blooper,” the family dog, now residing in Arizona.

Gandolff da cat, has now become an old friend who stops by for dinner whenever he pleases. He never calls first or sends a text, but I don’t mind at all. I listen for his quiet meows or scratchy, scratch against my sliding screen door. Slowly, I pull in to the garage to avoid disturbing him, if he’s resting at home.

I have adjusted to his simple, unobtrusive needs. I have grown accustomed to him as if he were a favorite, old sweater I keep handy, never too far out of reach. No longer stylish, worn thin at the elbows, a bit saggy here and there, faded to an unrecognizable hue, my favorite sweater, like Gandolff, is a secret solace, a private joy kept between us alone.

When he’s around, his presence has become comfortable and comforting. He doesn’t need much, nor wants much. Brief and mindful attention and affection is all he asks for and surely gets. Knowing he’s around, even when I can’t see him, is warmly soothing.

Stubbing my toes and bumping my head against invisible obstacles, I struggle to open a can of tuna, boil carrots and find leftover oatmeal. A moment of calm is found mashing them all together, in silent anticipation of his  return.

By nightfall, knowing he appears when I need him and only when I need him, mashed tuna mix ala kitty  awaits in the fridge. I relax into sleep, dreaming of the wizardry that is Gandollf da Gray Cat.