When my mom died and my dad decided to move to a retirement village, a new home had to be found for Mickey. I never bothered looking for anyone suitable as nobody would be able to offer Mickey a more loving home than I could.
It would have been hard to find adoptive parents for Mickey anyway. For one, he was just over a year old and most people shy away from grown up cats, they prefer kittens. And two, quite a few people shy away from black cats.
Even though Mick isn’t completely black (he has a white belly, white feet and white socks), technically he is considered black.
Would I ever adopt a black cat? Well, the jury is still out on that one. My hesitation has nothing to do with the superstition that surrounds black cats, but something entirely different … it’s murder to find a black cat if he doesn’t want to be found.
Every night, before I go to bed, I do a headcount of my five cats. Just to make sure that everyone is safe and sound.
Gabriel never poses a problem as he knows the signs of bedtime and happily trots to Dieter’s room.
Chanel is equally smart and takes off to my room where she stretches herself out on my bed.
Charlotte needs a little persuasion. Before retiring for the night, she wants a drink from the bathroom sink and only then will she roll herself in a ball.
As for Holly … with Holly it’s a crapshoot. Some nights she’s happy to sleep on my bed, other nights all she wants to do is play. At the moment she’s fascinated by the balls in the Christmas tree and likes nothing better than slapping one off a branch and chasing it on the floor. She has a number of quiet toys, but no, playing with a rattling ball is so much more fun.
As for Mickey … that’s where the trouble starts. Some nights he’s waiting by my bed, ready to go to sleep, but other nights he’s hiding and anyone who has a black cat knows how difficult it is to find them.
And he doesn’t exactly stay in one place. As soon as Mick knows that we’re looking for him, he turns it into a game and changes hiding places.
I know that because sometimes, out of the corner of my eye I see something move, or feel him brush past my leg, or I trip over him.
So can it be that the unpopularity of black cats has nothing to do with superstition, and everything with the difficulty of finding them?