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Basta Ya
The Cat Adoption Team has mentioned on their twitter feed how people feel about black cats, and the occasional black-cat story is made. Here's mine, but it doesn't fit in 140 characters.
When I was in fifth grade, we adopted a semi-feral little black shorthair kitten that had been near a friend's house. I'd wanted her brother - and we eventually got him, a black/white mix - but she was the one we were able to get hold of first and my mother loved black cats especially. And she turned out to be the better pet of the two (her brother was nice, but never fully tamed down).
We lived on a farm, and she was an indoor-outdoor cat. She quickly got named "Basta Ya!" (That's Enough!) or Basta for short. She was playful, full enough of energy for any two cats, and fun. And she would hunt and bring us bird bits. Ew. But she was a good huntress. And then, being an indoor outdoor cat, she disappeared.
We mourned. And some months later she came back, fat sassy and happy. We could only surmise she'd moved in with a neighbor for a while, who was now wondering where 'their' cat had gone.
This was the cycle for years. She would be there for a year or two, vanish for a number of months, and come back. She slowed down as a huntress over the years, but she started out a good snuggler and got better, and she had a very comfortable purr and head-butt. After about 10-12 years of age, she stopped vanishing and settled down to live with my parents.
When my mother was dying of lung cancer, Basta sat on the end of her hospital bed (in her room at home) most of the time, getting down only for food and water or to use the litter. Mom would tease her, sometimes, by bouncing her foot, because Basta often lay over it. Basta would wake up and look around, startled and out of sorts, then put her head back down and go to sleep.
After Mom died, the next night, Basta slept on the hospital bed. And then they took it away (it was rented), and Basta made Daddy cry - in the middle of the night, he heard her yowling. She was sitting in the middle of the room where the hospital bed had been, crying her heart out. He petted her, comforted her, picked her up and took her back to bed with him.
She lived six months after Mom died, and then she went herself; she was 21 years old, a venerable lady who still purred well.
She was one of the best cats I've ever known.
When I was in fifth grade, we adopted a semi-feral little black shorthair kitten that had been near a friend's house. I'd wanted her brother - and we eventually got him, a black/white mix - but she was the one we were able to get hold of first and my mother loved black cats especially. And she turned out to be the better pet of the two (her brother was nice, but never fully tamed down).
We lived on a farm, and she was an indoor-outdoor cat. She quickly got named "Basta Ya!" (That's Enough!) or Basta for short. She was playful, full enough of energy for any two cats, and fun. And she would hunt and bring us bird bits. Ew. But she was a good huntress. And then, being an indoor outdoor cat, she disappeared.
We mourned. And some months later she came back, fat sassy and happy. We could only surmise she'd moved in with a neighbor for a while, who was now wondering where 'their' cat had gone.
This was the cycle for years. She would be there for a year or two, vanish for a number of months, and come back. She slowed down as a huntress over the years, but she started out a good snuggler and got better, and she had a very comfortable purr and head-butt. After about 10-12 years of age, she stopped vanishing and settled down to live with my parents.
When my mother was dying of lung cancer, Basta sat on the end of her hospital bed (in her room at home) most of the time, getting down only for food and water or to use the litter. Mom would tease her, sometimes, by bouncing her foot, because Basta often lay over it. Basta would wake up and look around, startled and out of sorts, then put her head back down and go to sleep.
After Mom died, the next night, Basta slept on the hospital bed. And then they took it away (it was rented), and Basta made Daddy cry - in the middle of the night, he heard her yowling. She was sitting in the middle of the room where the hospital bed had been, crying her heart out. He petted her, comforted her, picked her up and took her back to bed with him.
She lived six months after Mom died, and then she went herself; she was 21 years old, a venerable lady who still purred well.
She was one of the best cats I've ever known.