Ode to Black Cat

This cat who's slowly making me his . . .  A glossy creature, black as shadows on a moonless night.  A beguiling fellow, he is by turns aloof and tender, watchful and remote, then curling at my feet. 

Last night he brought his lady friend to visit.  He proudly led the way to his new-found trove of food and warmth, coaxing her along.  A shy thing, she hung back, afraid to enter. He murmured softly, nuzzling her ear, until she darted through to safety behind a chair.  I left her alone, just put out two dishes and a bowl of water and then retired to the sofa to watch in silence. 

The Prince of Midnight is not normally inclined to share, growling low in his throat and occasionally charging at neighboring cats who venture near.  But this night he turned all his charm toward his sole invited guest.  He rolled and wriggled, batting gently in the air, blinking his sloe green eyes at her.

She gradually succumbed, and together they ate, first from one dish, then the other. 

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Some years ago I worked in a small town in the mountains and stayed in an efficiency apartment on the bank of the Pigeon River. I gradually made friends with a couple of the feral cats who haunted the area. One stayed for thirteen years. Black Cat, her offspring, stayed for two years before feline aids took him. His lady friend, whom I called PK (for Pretty Kitty) came with him often but remained shy of people. She learned her name and came for food, but she could never relax if I shut the door and she was closed in my apartment. She never returned after Black Cat died. If I find a picture of them, I'll post it. I miss those slinking, shadowy creatures who stayed near but never close.