Pitch-Black; Pitch-Black

When I was a young girl, around the age of seven, I lived in a neighborhood on the edge of a rundown park where people would regularly abandon their cats. The string of slurs I would use to describe these people would not be suitable for the broad audience I am hoping will read this story, so I will leave it at this: I hated those people and I did everything I could do, as a young child, to stop them. I told my parents, I told my friends, I told my teachers- I sat on a bench nearby every free minute I had to dissuade people from dropping their pets off, to no avail. Every week or two there would be a new cat, scared and alone, cowering under a bush or tree. Some were dropped in boxes, and would stay near the rotting cardboard that, to them, was their last glimpse of home. I wanted to pat their heads and scratch their chins, to give them the love they deserved, but I could never get close. To be treated so cruelly and to still be able to trust a person after that, would be remarkable, so I understood why they ran from me.

One day, shortly after I arrived at the bench I saw Pitch-Black for the first time. (For clarification, he is not the cat in the picture, but instead, the dear friend who my rescue is named after, we will get to him shortly.) Pitch-Black was as wary as the other cats at first. He was sitting at the edge of the road, watching me, watching him. I initially mistook him for a grey cat I saw often by the edge of the road. After closer inspection, however, I realized he wasn’t grey, but a smaller, black cat, with a decent amount of chunk on him. A healthy amount of fat was not a common sight amongst the strays, who were usually skin and bone from the moment they arrived. As I left to head home I attempted to approach him for the first time, he ran away and quickly disappeared into the woods. The next couple of weeks were a similar story, he would sit near to the road and watch me, watching him from the bench. I saw him get skinnier, and skinnier, until he blended in with the other cats. One evening, he crossed the road, and planted himself ten feet from me. To me, this was an invitation, but as I stood up, he sprinted across the street. The next day was the same, except this time, I merely extended my hand to the ground. This time the invitation was his, and he accepted. He brushed his head against my hand and leaned against my leg. He was well into his adult years but now elderly, a sturdy little man. From that day on he was my company in my mission to help the cats. Every day we would meet at the bench, where I would provide him with leftovers or sandwich meat. In the evening he would walk with me on the path back to my neighborhood, then depart at the opening behind my neighbors' house. This next memory remains a sore spot in my heart. One evening my neighbor was on his back porch when we appeared at the edge of the path. He asked me, casually, "That your cat?" I told him that he might as well be! I mentioned the abandoned cats and my mission to stop the dumping. I remember the cheerful naivety I had, to boast my friend to a stranger. He said he saw me on my way home most days, and that he wondered what I was doing going back there all by myself. Pitch-Black had run off while I was focused on the neighbor. I bid him goodbye and returned home for the night. The next few days were normal, except for the fact my neighbor was outside on his porch each evening on my way back, he was never outside before. Pitch-Black started departing earlier one the path and I took no offense, I figured it was because he didn't like strangers.

This next part, my friends, I write on the edge of tears, because, one day, when I arrived at the park, Pitch-Black was not waiting for me. I didn't see any of the cats, not on the trail, not in the bushes, or darting across the field behind the bench. They were gone, without a trace, hold the cardboard boxes they once clung to so desperately. I sat down on the bench, worried and waiting, until it was time to go back home. On the way back through the woods, for the first time, I was scared. It felt darker than usual. For the first time since I discovered the cats I was truly alone. I ran down the path and stopped in my tracks when I saw my neighbor. I told him with tears running down my face about the cats disappearing. He said to me, "I called animal control, it will be better off this way,” with that my tiny world was crushed. The emotions proceeding that evening were a violent mix of desperation and pure anguish. I begged my parents to call the shelters, to find and adopt my cat but they told me no, “we don't need a cat.” I pleaded with them, “He will find a better home,” they told me. I really- really hope they were right.

I spent years wondering what happened to him, telling this story to many people along the way. How could one ever forget a friend so dear? I became an adult, got a stable job, and moved into my home with my partner.

I was out running an errand at the local PetSmart, grabbing food and bedding for my hamster, when I felt compelled to visit the kennels where they held the cats up for adoption. That was where I met my Bubs. When I first saw him I thought he was grey, upon closer inspection, I realized he was black, pitch black, with wide amber eyes like my friend before. I took him home that day, and I have never been happier with an impulse decision in my life. He is the goofiest cat I have ever met, and I love him like a mother loves a child. His hobbies include: watching the sink drain, knocking over any cup left unattended, and ambushing people as they walk around the corner. Every time I cup his little face in my hands and look into his soft, curious eyes I see a well-loved friend, forever in my heart, and forever in mind.