BLACK CAT AND THE ACCIDENTAL ANGEL
After finding the lost cats, Black Cat and Angel, a newspaper ad was posted. A lady responded, believing Angel to be her lost cat. (Narrated by Black Cat as he faces the loss of his ladylove.)
The crunch of tires announced the arrival of Angel’s owner.
Mrs. Stubblefield wore a pink tee shirt with Miss Boop-kins scrawled across the front. She carried a pink cat carrier with lace around the door and a red bow on top. “Miss Boop-kins” was emblazoned on the side in script that matched Mrs. Stubblefield's tee shirt. Cynthia sat on the floor and pulled Angel and all the babies into her lap, as if to say, “You’ll only take them over my cold dead body.”
I sat beside Angel and growled, fighting the urge to take out anyone who came too close. I was willing to fight for my family until the breath left my body… but I knew I couldn’t. I had to put up a front for Angel and Cynthia’s sake. A bloody 'cat- fight to the death' wouldn’t make Angel’s leaving any easier on anyone.
I froze, facing the moment I dreaded. Mrs. Stubblefield set the cat carrier on the floor and crossed the room, her face wreathed in smiles. Angel looked up and their eyes met. Mrs. Stubblefield burst into tears. Tears of joy, I guessed.
It was too much. I tried to be brave, but I couldn’t hold it together any longer. I’m not proud of myself, but I ran straight out the door and over to the woodpile. Misery filled my heart. Waves of suicidal thoughts one minute, and homicidal thoughts the next, raged within my breast and I didn’t know who I should kill first; myself or Mrs. Stubblefield.
I heard Cynthia shriek. I guess she was throwing a fit in spite of her promise to be good and let Angel go back to her owner.
She was on the porch, calling. “Black Cat. Come quick. Here kitty, kitty. I have something important to tell you.”
Yeah, right. ...As if I needed a lecture on civility while I watched Mrs. Stubblefield pop Angel into the ridiculous whore wagon. I started to run away through the vineyard. I stopped. At least I owe Angel a decent good-bye. A broken, defeated soul, I slunk so low across the yard, pine needles stuck to my belly fur and dropped to the floor as I crossed the porch.
Inside, I found Mrs. Stubblefield on the rug with Cynthia, giggling and cooing over the kittens.
What’s going on here? Too much jocularity for such a somber occasion.
“Oh, there you are, Black Cat," Cynthia said. Angel isn’t Mrs. Stubblefield's after all, but she wants to take the cream kitten home with her. Isn’t that wonderful?”
At that moment, a beam of sunshine streamed through the window casting a glow across Angel’s face. I swear I heard a chorus of angels singing, Hallelujah! Hallelujah!
Mrs. Stubblefield stroked the cream baby. “I think I’ll call you… Miss Bubble-kins… Yes, that’s what I’ll call you.”
I shuddered. That I should live to see a daughter of mine go through life called Miss Bubble-kins… but the kitten wound her toes in and out and mouthed an appreciative silent mew, which apparently meant she approved. I guess any lady who would wear a tee shirt with her cat’s name spread across her boobs can’t be all bad. It looked as if… Miss Bubble-kins… would go to a good home with a besotted owner, which, is the goal of any father cat.
On the one hand, Miss Bubble-kins had only started to drink from a bowl the day before. On the other hand, Mrs. Stubblefield would likely move heaven and earth to see that … Miss Bubble-kins… got enough to eat even if it meant feeding her with a bottle. We all kissed the baby good-bye and wished her good luck.
That afternoon, Daddy took Cynthia to the vineyard, and Angel and I snuggled on the blanket with Rambo and Mittens.
“I know she’s going to a good home, but I’m a little sad to see her go so young. I thought I’d have more time to teach her more cat things,” Angel said.
“That’s how things ought to be. You give them life, teach them right from wrong, and kiss them good-bye. That’s what a mother cat does. You don’t have any regrets, do you?”
Angel sighed. “I do regret naming her Miss Bubble-kins.” Her mouth twitched.
I rolled over, put my feet in the air and laughed. “And I do regret calling her cat carrier a whore wagon.”
Angel glared at me. “You didn’t!”
“I did, but I have to admit, when they put her into that pink thing with the lace around the door and the red ribbon, she did look kind of cute, didn’t she?”
“Yes, but she looked awfully little in there.”
“I’m betting she was in Mrs. Stubblefield’s lap before she turned the corner.”
“Yes, I’ll bet you’re right.” Then, Angel put her paws around the other two kittens and dragged them a little closer to her heart. I think she had a little tear in her eye. Or could it be that I was looking through my own tears? It’s hard to say.
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