What chance has a little black kitty...

This post has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with Blackie. As you will clearly see, he deserves this modest remembrance in the modern world of people.

Harold was an older man, who lived in a big house all by himself and he was very lonely. Sometimes when the evening came, and he had finished his supper, he would open the big glass doors to the back patio and back yard, where numerous little animals all lived together, like a community garden or park.

One spring, Harold was suddenly overcome by little kittens. With a couple of moms around, kittens were in no short supply. He would often put out pans of leftover gravy, and little pieces of bread with milk, and he watched the babies grow. But these kittens were wild and he could never get close or touch them.

How he did it still remains a mystery, but Harold managed to capture two of the little kittens and he drove 4 hours to bring them to his daughter. She would never forget looking into the pet carrier and seeing two tiny little black kittens; one with a white mustache and paws and the other pure black. It's this black kitten that is the hero for us tonite. It is of Blackie we speak.

Blackie lived his whole life at the farm. He survived my dogs, other neighbor dogs, coyotes, hawks and owls (and some didn't), snakes, and rival feral cats that might and did invade his turf. It should be said here, that Blackie never did like his brother, Sylvester. In fact, he often looked seriously straight in my eyes as if to say, "he's NOT my brother!" They were the same age, and born in the same yard and were hanging out together when they were caught. But Sylvester was a long and lean tuxedo cat, much like a Siamese, and Blackie was not. Blackie was short and stout, perfect in every way, with two beautiful hazel green "flat" eyes. That was his common expression, anyway, all black with these piercing flat eyes...

Due to modern demands on his human, Blackie learned how to be accepted into other peoples' yards, whether for comfort or food is not clear, and he showed some of the scars for his efforts. But he was always loyal to the girl, who was me, BTW, who tried her best, and no doubt failed quite often, but who in the end gave Blackie the most comfortable life she could for several years. For a while we lived in a house that had a beautiful bathroom that had a window that looked out into the back yard and one huge lovely pine tree, which must have reminded Blackie of his home where he lived in Harold's backyard. (Pine trees were much more rare to find in central Texas than in his native "east Texas."

He had a big bureau drawers where he had a nice towel and several fabrics arranged for him to be comfortable on. The window was right at his level and so breezes could come in and he could check for scents. It was also much more quiet in that part of the house, so Blackie could be King and be pampered with his own personal water and food dish, and he was always greeted with a good rub and probably a kiss.

We all wonder about death. We don't like to talk about it. But we all have to do it. Circumstance will eventually catch up to you and that is that. I had rescued a medium-sized black dog. Not uncommon at all to be seen standing alone on the roadside. And not thinking, I did not protect Blackie from him as I should have, and one afternoon the dog attacked him and hurt his back very badly. Blackie became paralyzed in his lower body.

I helped him a lot as I could. And he fought hard against the disability. But you could begin to tell it was taking its toll on him. I had to make the decision to let him go. He was my friend. And I loved him a lot. And it was heart-wrenching to go through the end with him. Amazingly, two girls came out to the farm from the vet's office, and immediately remembered Blackie from having his neuter operation, and now he was fourteen years old. Blackie had two cans of tuna and had settled in quiet when I let the girls help him. I remember them telling me that he was gone. I must have been talking to him.

I have a picture of Blackie on the wall in my living room. He is wearing a double row of white pearls to accentuate his beautiful black fur, and he's standing on his bureau in the bathroom on a pretty purple cloth and he looks stunning for a little black cat. Every pet is different and some hit you harder in the heart than others. Blackie was one of those. You loved him so much it made your chest hurt. I thank God for sending me Blackie. I thank Harold for being my dad and bringing me two little kittens out of the blue. Blackie was a very very good friend to me. He always came when I called for him, no matter where he was. Blackie made me feel loved, and for me, he was so lovable. All the people and animals at the farm miss Blackie very much. I couldn't imagine anything nicer than to meet Blackie again in heaven if that's possible. Great spirit is never forgotten. We love you Blackie Blackie!