The cat with three names

At eight he comes in over my balcony, finishes his plate and falls asleep on the good chair. I named him Bruno. One afternoon I followed him across the rooftops: in the courtyard of the second floor, señora Remedios opened her window and called him Cinnamon; mid-morning, I was told later, he does the rounds of the bakery, where they save him ham trimmings and he answers to Mister.

I didn't mind sharing him. A cat like that isn't owned: he's taken in turns.

The strange part was the photograph. The bakery keeps a black-and-white picture of the shop window from the year they opened: 1961. On top of the loaves, sitting in the very spot where he sits now, there is an identical cat. Identical. The baker says his grandfather called him Ash, and never found out who he belonged to.

At eight I wait for him with a full plate. I don't ask how many names he has worn out. That one of them is mine, for a few years, seems to me a fair deal.