Every morning, just before the sun fully rises, I hear a familiar sound at my door.

It’s not the soft trill of birds or the rustling of wind—it’s a meow. Sharp. Purposeful. Persistent.

That’s Bob.

Bob doesn’t belong to me. I don’t have a cat. At least, that’s what I tell people.

But every day, without fail, Bob sits like a tiny guardian on my porch. He doesn’t lounge or stretch. He sits upright—alert, direct, and just a little bit judgy. His eyes lock onto mine through the window like he knows I haven’t had my coffee yet and doesn’t care.

If I take too long getting the food, Bob adds a little drama. A paw raised. A tap on the door. Sometimes even a louder, irritated meow. It’s not begging—it’s more like a royal decree: “Your subject awaits. The bowls are empty.”

And so I feed him. Every day. Rain or shine.

He doesn’t let me touch him—not yet. Bob is feral. Proud. Independent. There’s a deep intelligence in his eyes and a sense of history in the way he carries himself, like he’s seen things—survived things—and still shows up with dignity and demand.

And yet, slowly, something’s shifting. He no longer bolts when I open the door. He lingers nearby, watching. Trust takes time, and Bob is giving it in cautious doses.

He’s not my cat.

But he’s here.

Every morning.

Just waiting.

And maybe… just maybe… one day he’ll decide that I’m his person.