The cat thought it the most interesting thing, at that moment, of there being food left in front of an unguarded door. There was nothing to discourage him from trying the tuna, which naturally discouraged him, and he didn’t feel hungry, which only left him unsatisfied and insatiably needing something.

His diamond black eyes wondered occasionally at the balcony from the other side of the complex, knowing he was nearly 500 feet from where the can had been mysteriously placed. He was perched on a thick, white rail, which swayed heartlessly, but he managed to balance himself. He was a cat and he was light.

Pst, pst, pst. C’mere, pst, pst, pst.

He could hear the rattle from the bottle. His food — brown and tasteless pellets — was crunchy and stale and would be waiting for him at the top of the refrigerator in a little blue plastic bowl. The pellets had a soft fish smell, but the most repulsive thing would be the pungent stench of the dog, which would transfer from the master’s fingers to the bowl, to the pellets. The mangy dog was quicker on his feet and always hungrier than the cat, and he’d slobber it all up if the master didn’t put the food where only his nimble limbs could reach. He was lighter than the dog.

The cat gathered that she, the master, would always feed him, therefore the tuna became the interest of the morning. It wasn’t far, he pointed out to himself. He calculated a merely three minute hop through the mildew. He classified himself as free and adventurous, one who could intelligently roam wherever he wanted. Sometimes, he’d even go to the neighbor’s house to meow at their window. Then he cocked his head to the left and wondered why they would never offer him food. Bewildered, he considered his appeal. He must be a handsome cat, clearly a clever looking cat. Perhaps it was the presence of the master that intimidated the neighbors.

Pst, pst, pst! What are you doing out there?

He returned his focus to perching heavenly on the rail, pretending not to stare at the can of tuna, but from the tip of his eye, he waited to see if the birds or another cat took notice. He watched the shadows of the leaves change shapes on the ground, his way of watching the passing time.

He made his attempt, hopped down from the rail and down the stairs. It wasn’t a far walk, and he played with the butterflies that were attracted to the flowers. He didn’t wish to kill them, only to see how his movements affected their movements, which wasn’t much. It seemed that everything was brainless this day.

Finally, he made it to the other side of the porch, and he saw the can, resting on the silver floor, glowing as a prize. He stared some more, and thought how the butterflies were much more playful. They would spin around for him, he could chase them, but here, this circular piece of metal just sat still, doing just as much being as a blade of grass. He laid by the porch entrance, calculating the interior. The three walls were covered with hung bamboo curtains, barely masking the light silver paint and there were three mismatched chairs all across from one another, in a sort of circle. The cushions on the chairs didn’t appear damp or moldy from being outside, but fresh and hardly sat upon. There was a table at the side of one of the chairs with an empty ashtray. From afar, this seemed very similar to his master’s porch. There were even plants hung from the roof, dangling down so that he could swat at them. He stretched himself and carefully eased into this new territory, hopping from one foot to the other without moving a speck of dust. The can of tuna was by the door, a very unsafe place, he knew. He stopped a foot away, waited for some sort of signal that the door was to be opened.

A softened pink butterfly fluttered smoothly towards the cat, who was now lying on his stomach, and stooped by his paw, “I’ve never seen you here before.”

“That’s true,” the cat rolled on his back, feigning interest in the ceiling.

“So what do you want?” his wings slowed, as if his heartbeat was calm from being stationary, “The tuna, right?”

“What tuna?”

“That one by the door. The one you’ve been staring at, hoping for, right?”

“I don’t have that thing you say, hope? How silly. You’re mistaken.”

“I have better eyes than you do. I am not mistaken.”

“What do you need, bug? Want me to try to smack you?”

“I want you to know that if you want that tuna, you can have it. No one will stop you. But for one, it is not yours. For two, you are insatiable.”

“Is there a three? I do not like even numbers.”

“For three…I can make a three for you.”

“Yes?”

“This will hurt your master.”

“I don’t care about her.”

He imagined the door opening and him crawling through the small space with a pst pst pst. He imagined being lead into a room similar to his master’s. The stranger was a man in a black suit and tie, with a white smile and straight teeth. He wore alligator shoes and wouldn’t mind if he scratched the chair because he could very well find a new chair and leave this one to the cat. Then each day would be a new one because there was always a new can of tuna, chicken, maybe even lamb, and everything would feel like a comfortable adventure.

The door remained closed. The cat meowed to see if the stranger inside would hear him. The butterfly lifted his wings and began his flight around the neighborhood again, trying to imagine the cat staying still because that’s what he hoped would happen.

The cat moved in towards the can quickly and sniffed. He took each nibble at the pieces with nervousness, and thought about how moist they were from the humidity. The flies had moved away, and each bite was tender, trickling down his throat. His taste buds screamed irresponsibly. He indomitably recalled the hard food, tasteless and crunchy, such opposites. He finished the tuna, licked it until the bottom of the can was merely a reflection and he felt this strange ache in his ruthless guts. He looked into the can, and saw himself, as if he were looking into the chlorine stimulated swimming pool. He saw his orange flakey hair, matted down from playing with the butterflies in the wet grass. And he saw how his colors, orange, white, and black, seemed to go in patches rather than collective swirls, like normal. His eyes were black, an unlucky thing for a cat. No one can tell the mood of a cat whose eyes don’t change shapes. And he thought how terribly unlucky he was to be the nomad, the cat thief.