I suppose there has to be a reason
or at least a note
to mark that day--
He ate his breakfast
She let him out
He walked along the railing like the plank
defying death for pleasure
of his lady's company
to get his belly rubbed
sprawled long
across her lap
She released him
to chase the squirrels of his dreams
to his black cat adventures
to the aching green of life's
late summer ways
But, the days assemble against your return
May the angels find you quickly
my darling, Bailey
Dark beauty of coal
I was a Tuesday, bereft
You disappeared--
like the shadow of a whisper
Disappeared like hope--
in the last blow of day
Black cats, so often feared by the superstitious, are the last to be adopted at shelters and often singled out for cruel treatment by the heartless.
Bailey was on "Death's Row" after being seven months in the pound. Even his status as "The Pet of the Week" could not get someone to want him. I saw his little vid with the TV reporter --and he belonged to me.
My first impression of him:
"Gawd! what a tall cat!"