When Fred began showing up for breakfast, I had a new reason to jump out of bed each day, eager to see if he was there. I was like a child on Christmas morning, knowing that Santa had visited but not sure if he brought me the present I really wanted.

After about a week of his morning visits, Penelope began to share my excitement for our daily guest as well, standing squarely in the bedroom doorway, letting me know vocally that he was there, long before I got out of bed. Something about the sound of her morning meow, always intent on waking us up moments before the alarm, told me that Fred had arrived and was eagerly awaiting his breakfast.

By the way, how can a cat tell time?

And then, of course, I began to get annoyed with Fred. He was happy enough to show up and eat every morning but wasn’t willing to give us anything in return. I began to feel the creep of annoyance, knowing that we were being taken advantage of. I had obviously moved to the point of anthropomorphism, assigning Fred human-like qualities. Who else but a human would purposefully take advantage of someone else?

But of COURSE he was taking advantage of us! He was a wild cat who was hungry, and we were a food source.

I wanted more, however. I wanted him to pay for his meals. I wanted him to get used to me, to love me, to love coming each morning, not just because he loved my food, but because he loved me. There, I said it. I wanted him to love me. And I thought I could make it happen.

The morning of July 4 was just the day to start. Time for new beginnings.

I came down the stairs, knowing from the sound of Penelope’s urgent meow that he was already waiting for me. I think now that she actually knew what I had planned already and was eager to help get things rolling.

Of course, as on cue, he was there at the back door, looking in with assumption and expectation.

Fred knew the routine. I would fix his food, he would watch me through the window, and then I would head to the door to bring his food.

He knew that this was his cue to run off the porch, watch me from the yard, and wait until I put the food down for him. After I returned to the house and closed the door, he knew it was time to come to the porch for his breakfast.

Not that day though! I got his food and water dishes ready but didn’t open the door. Instead, I fluttered around making my coffee and gathering the other necessary tools for my master plan.

It took a little extra time.

Whenever I would bring something close to the door, Fred would dash away, hopeful that we were ready to get this breakfast started. I had to laugh each time I saw the curious and disappointed look on his face when I didn’t bring out what he was seeking. He would pop back on the porch when I didn’t immediately come out with the food, ready to investigate, staying only as long again as when I would bring something else out.

I slowed down my efforts, taking the time I needed to get this right, no longer worrying if he would run away before being fed. Hunger won out first and last, with curiosity mixed in there. He was confused by this change in routine, but he wasn’t going to leave without breakfast.

That’s when the real fun began.

When I had everything ready, I opened the door. Fred was already in the yard, expecting me to put down the food and leave, but I didn’t do that. Instead, I brought out a cushion and set it near the door so I could sit on the cushion and lean against the house.

Next, I brought out my coffee, a glass of water, my phone and glasses. Then there was the box of treats.

Fred was looking very uncertain now, clearly confused as he watched from his vantage point across the yard, but his belly was firmly in control. I imagine him regretting not catching a mouse that morning, so certain that he would have his now normal delicious breakfast of Friskies.  

Next, I brought out a dish with wet food with a few kibbles of dry food mixed in, the extra wet food from the can, more dry food, and then, finally, a bowl of water.

I set the two bowls, one of food and one of water, on the porch, farther away than I had been putting them the past week or so, but now dangerously close to the real test. Me. I sat down on the porch, my legs outstretched, my feet close to the bowls.

I was the wild card. He would have to be close to me in order to eat. He would have to be closer to me than I knew he had been with any human.  He would have to trust that I wouldn’t hurt him, and I wasn’t sure if he would.

The looks he gave me were hilarious! If a cat could pout like a teenager, he was pouting. He was also clearly very hungry. And the two emotions of fear and hunger were battling each other.

I, meanwhile, calmly sipped my coffee.

I say I was calm, but I was nervous too. I didn’t want to screw this up and have him run away and leave, never to return. I had voiced those fears to Jeff the day before when I announced my plan. What if it scares him and he runs away and never comes back?  I asked.

Jeff gently reminded me that we were now Fred’s food source.  He had a month to become very comfortable with regular meals. The need for food would win out over fear, even if it took a few days.

So, I sat there to wait him out. And much to my surprise, it didn’t take long.

Within a few moments I had to suppress my excitement as he crept slowly closer. About 10 minutes before 7am, he moved gingerly up to the porch, one stair at a time, and, to my surprise and astonishment, he began eating.

He ate fast, like in the first few days that he had eaten with us, gorging himself, hardly chewing and constantly popping his head up to check on my whereabouts. For my part, once he started eating, I sat as still as I could.

When he had devoured the food and looked at me expectantly, I made a move to refill his bowl, prompting him to dart away quickly, back to the safety of the yard.

But to my continued astonishment, he just watched me as I refilled the bowl. I thought for certain he would be up and over the fence in a flash. Instead, I had barely settled myself back on the cushion when he was back on the steps. The second helping went slightly slower, but this time I dared to move. I raised my coffee cup up, making him freeze mid bite and then run away back down the stairs and to the safety of the lawn.

Despite my beating heart, I continued to be calm, drinking my coffee, moving slowly but still moving. I knew this was the real test. Would he allow me to move around him and still come back?

Yes. Hesitantly at first, and then on the second and third helpings, we achieved a new normal. I could move the cup, and although he would still freeze at my movement, he no longer ran down off the porch. He also stayed closer to the bottom step each time I refilled the bowl. He was finding peace with food and me in the same space.

By 7:04am, something even more astonishing happened. Satiated, he didn’t leave the porch this time. He moved close to the spot that for weeks he had been his favorite lounging place post meal. And then he sat down.

I didn’t realize until that point that I had actually been talking to him for a time as well, explaining what I was doing when I refilled his food dish and telling him how happy I was to be with him. We sat there for a time, just relaxing together, me chatting, and him looking cool and confident. For a moment I even think he drifted off to sleep, even for just a moment.

We sat like that for a very long time. Over an hour! When he seemed to have fully digested and seemed ready to move on, I pulled out the big guns. The treats.

I pulled a treat out of the box and tossed it gently towards him, the movement sparking a bit of concern until his nose took over. Then it was game on.

We began a game that I soon dubbed “toss the treats,” and I realized that this was a really smart idea. At 8:30am we were still sharing the same space, and I could actually get him pretty close to me.

We had been together nearly 2 hours now, and I was getting eaten alive by hungry mosquitos, but I was not going to be the one to give up first. No way.

Finally, however, Fred had his fill, both in his belly, and in his time with me. He moved off, across the yard, up the fence and back into the alley to who knew where.

For my part, I sat there amazed, tears slipping out uncontrollably. This was as powerful to me as the first time I experienced hand feeding dolphins in Australia. I felt a deep connection with this mangy cat who also, clearly, needed not just food, but companionship.

I didn’t know where this was going to go, but I knew now there was a chance. We could bring him into our family. He wanted it. I wanted it. Penelope….well, Penelope watched as things unfolded through the window. Her thoughts on the matter were not quite so clear as mine or Fred’s, but at least she wasn’t objecting.

Then things really got exciting.