This is Ruby. She’s not my first black cat. She’s my first black cat who came as a tiny kitten. We actually got her because our other kitten, Ziggy, needed an outlet for energy. Ruby knows how to find nooks and crannies, she’s an expert climber. She’s been inside the washer, on top of the fridge, into the back corners of the closets and behind the kitchen cupboards. She likes to sleep on the bed, but only comes in when the person is asleep. Ruby is her own cat.
Max was my first black cat, as an adult. He was our ‘consolation’ prize, when our adoption application for another kitten was rejected. He would only urinate in the litter box at home. He wouldn’t go at the veterinary clinic, he wouldn’t go outside. During his brief career as an indoor-outdoor cat one summer, he would actually come to the door to be let in for the litter box. He was a fraidy cat, he was my cuddler, and he lived to the age of 18.
My first black cat ever was Blackie. I remember when we moved to the country, we needed a cat. At first, the house wasn’t closed in, and Blackie kept herself busy killing vermin. She would sit on the end of the mantle in the family room, and if you entered the room after dark, you could see those two yellow eyes glowing from across the room. She had kittens in my bed one time. I was entranced. My parents were disgusted.
I think there will always be room for black cats in my life.