The crazy cat lady who laughed at crazy cat ladies when she was young

When the street cats hear the sound of the dilapidated car, they come out of their hiding places, because they already know it's time to eat.

The woman parks up ahead, gets out with the can in her hand, and lo and behold, they all start to thrash around her legs. She calls them by name. "Blanquete," "Oscura," "Manchas" (Dark One). Auxiliary names, for a cat you meet, a useful but sweet distinction. She speaks to them, sometimes angrily ("Get away, you!"), sometimes caressing ("Come on, come here, I won't hurt you..."). She does it in the morning, when the man goes out for breakfast, because she hides it from him, which she does. "I don't want to hear it, since I don't want to hear it, I do it when he's not there, and that's all." And she adds: "If I knew, I'd spend all day wondering if the crazy cat lady fits here, or if the crazy cat lady goes that way." Two cyclists, riding up the road, half-ruminate, as if they'd heard her: "These women who feed animals... It's a nest of shit!"

This woman, who in her youth also laughed at crazy cat ladies and pigeons, receives only thanks from the cats all day. She makes lunch at home, and they often complain or don't finish it. During meals, everyone looks at their cell phones or television, and the most they give, if they like the food, is to repeat it without saying anything. Often, in the evening, the son has dinner in his room while talking on the phone with his friends. The man has eaten out and isn't hungry. He takes a piece of bread and ham and eats it standing up.

He's finished catching them, picked up the can, and got back in the car. "Come on, see you tonight, get along!" he said. "You two aren't fighting, are you?"