Black Kitty Luck Harem

We have a very exciting kitty drama enfolding this spring. In January, on the night when Murphy strolled in, C. and I were petting* him and looked over to the cracked-open door to see a ginormous, black cat head peering in at us ever so cautiously. All we saw was the fluffy head, and it seemed so large and complete, with such huge green eyes, that I couldn’t even imagine anything attached to the head. The head was enough.

Knowing how many stray cats are around here—I must have seen at least a dozen just by our house alone—I imagined a long trail of cats behind this peering kitty, in a The King, The Mice, and the Cheese kind of way.

“Don’t let that cat in,” I said to C., and he shut the door. I felt terrible not letting the large black cat participate in the cat lady cat party, but had the feeling that if we let him in, well, you know the story (see above). Before you know it we’d have two thousand cats in here.

I haven’t seen that kitty since, but last night C. said he saw him at the window. Murphy was perched, looking out from behind the curtains, and they seemed to be having some sort of communication.

I told C. that if he came around again, I was going to feed him and see what happened. Black cats are good luck here, so why not have a whole heap of them living with us? Well, ok, maybe just two.

So. Today it’s gorgeous out, and Murphy’s in the garden, sniffing things. I come back inside and who do I see jumping up on the fence but Mr. FatHead himself? Now this is exciting.

I go outside, and now Murph and FatHead are having a kitty stand-off, Murph’s tail huge and bushy. FatHead is such a cool-looking cat, husky and all velvety black with grassy green eyes. He sits in the corner of the garden looking at me at Murph, who is about one-tenth his size. He’s almost yawning, he seems so bored at Murph’s supposed threats. Clearly he’s been through this before.

I bring Murphy back inside so that I can see if FatHead will let me say hi to him, but he’s too shy. He flees back over the fence and disappears. Later, while I’m sitting by the window, he returns, and looks me right in the eye while he sprays on a bag of potting soil. Well. So much for the black kitty luck harem.

*Apparently, in England one strokes a cat and pets a dog. I can’t bring myself to use “stroke” as a verb after singing that Billy Squier song eight hundred billion times in fifth grade.

1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. Trackback: The Importance of Being Murphy « Bright Purple Rain Boots

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