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!"