The Black Cat

By Harley Carnell

When I initially heard the meowing, I thought it was coming from Pumblechook, my black Maine Coon. Only when I came out into the hall did I realise that it was actually coming from outside. I opened the front door tentatively and saw a small black cat outside, who began to meow furiously on seeing me.

“Oh, hello,” I said. “Who are you, then?”

The cat meowed again, with a ferocity that initially made me think that he was perfectly healthy, well-fed, and that this was a Six-Dinner Sid situation. Then again, it might just be that he was desperate, and I’d much rather give food to a well-fed cat than not give any to one who genuinely needed to eat. 

“I’ll just be a minute,” I said, “just one second.” I closed the door and rushed back inside as he began to frantically meow. I grabbed some food and quickly deposited it into a bowl, a little bit of the jellied meat spilling onto my hand. I’d had cats all my life but had never been able to overcome my disgust at accidentally touching their food. 

When I came back to the door, I could see that Pumblechook was standing there, sniffing under the frame. 

I carefully removed him from the door, before heading back outside. On seeing me, the black cat resumed his meowing and circled my feet frantically. I set the bowl down, and he began to eat with an alacrity that suggested he really was hungry. Certainly as I looked at him, he did seem very thin, although his coat was sleek and there didn’t appear to be any cuts or signs of fleas. 

As he ate, he let me stroke him. Again, this might be a good sign – if he was a stray, then he might be more scared. Although, once more, it could also just mean that he was so desperate that he was willing to put himself at risk.

“What is it, darling?” I asked, as I ran my hand down his back. “Are you a stray, or are you just being a gremlin?”

When he finished eating, he let me pet him a few more times before nonchalantly walking away. I smiled, and brought the bowl back inside. I had to be careful, as Pumblechook was waiting right at the door. I had gotten him from an animal shelter, and he was strictly an indoor cat. He had never gotten out before, but his perennial fascination with the outside always made me wary whenever I opened the front door that he might try to escape. 

Although I had always tried to give him as much love and attention as possible, and was as gentle as I could be when around him, he always retained a low-level fear of me. It was clear he would never fully overcome what had happened to him before the shelter. Whenever I got a new rescue cat, I made a point of not knowing what had happened in their pasts. It was hard enough knowing that there were people who did terrible things to cats, without having to endure the specifics. Usually, if I was this close to him, he would have ran away, but even when I came in and stood right by him he remained at the door, continuing to sniff. He even let me stroke him a few times, before finally deciding to run away. 

***

The cat came back the next night, when Pumblechook and me were sitting on the couch watching TV. Despite Pumblechook’s fear of me, and of seemingly all humans (none of my friends had ever seen more than the slightest snatch of him), he did like to be in my proximity. When I worked from home, he would sit on the chair next to my desk. When I cooked, he would be on the countertop. In the living room, he would always sit next to me on the couch as I watched TV, and would even deign to let me give him the odd stroke if he was tired or contented enough. 

With his superior hearing, Pumblechook heard the cat first, and I followed. I went and grabbed some food, and then gently shepherded Pumblechook away as I opened the front door. 

The black cat did not eat with quite as much urgency this time, either because he wasn’t as hungry, or he had started to trust me and so wasn’t worried that I would hurt him or suddenly snatch the bowl from him. As I looked down at him, I had the impression once more that he was in fact healthy.

“You really are a pretty boy, aren’t you?” I said, stroking under his chin. He didn’t like this, although it might just have been because my hand was getting in the way of his eating rather than it being a sensitive area or something. I loved that about cats, how they each had their own little personalities, and preferences over where they liked to be petted and stroked. Pumblechook loved a chin scratch, for instance. It was about nine o’clock now, on a summer’s evening. I imagined the cat having had his dinner at home half an hour earlier, and cheekily making his way over to mine to have his second one. 

Maybe I’d get a knock at the door one day from furious neighbours, telling me to stop feeding their cat. If this was the case, I would of course acquiesce. Although, while I still thought the cat was healthy, I maintained that he looked a little on the thin side. I was no vet, but as I ran my hands along his flank and side he did feel like he could do with a bit of fattening up. Cat food was expensive, and as we were living in a time where people struggled to feed themselves, let alone their cats, maybe these speculative neighbours may not be angry but in fact grateful I was feeding him. After he finished eating, the cat stayed for a little bit and let me stroke him, before going on his way. He didn’t purr, and it seemed mainly as if he was tolerating my stroking rather than actively enjoying it, but that he was letting me was a good sign. I hoped that maybe at some point I would be able to get a purr, or even just a little headbutt.

***

As the cat returned each day, at roughly the same time, I realised I’d have to name him. The first name that came to mind was, simply, The Black Cat, like the Edgar Allan Poe story. Whether it was because it was the first name that came to me, or because it aligned with the literary nomenclature begun with Pumblechook, I liked it and stuck with it.

Pumblechook seemed to be getting more used to The Black Cat, if only in the sense that he no longer came to the door every time he heard him. Still, I would have to keep an eye on him. This was Pumblechook’s house, and with everything that he had been through it was important that he had somewhere safe and that was his. He came first, and I would not do anything to jeopardise that. 

***

One night, when I came out to feed The Black Cat, he poked his head into the door and began looking around. The next night, he tried to get into the house.

“No, no,” I said, laughing, “I’m feeding you here. Look, I got some new food, I got you salmon.”

The salmon seemed to content him that night, but the next night he was trying to get in again. Then, one night, he did manage to get past me. To my amusement, he began strolling around like he owned the place.

“Erm, excuse me,” I said, “excuse me, mister.”

I picked him up and carried him outside, which he let me do. If I ever tried to pick up Pumblechook, he would go absolutely mad. Somewhere on my thumb I retained the scar from when he had scratched me as I tried to get him into the cat carrier for a vet visit. 

As I was escorting The Black Cat out, my suspicions about his weight were confirmed. He really was very thin, and very small. It wouldn’t have taken that much convincing to trick me into thinking he was a kitten. Was he just naturally small, or was this evidence that he was malnourished?

***

When he came back in the next night, Pumblechook saw him. The Black Cat was by the front door, and Pumblechook was by the living room. The two stared at each other.

“It’s okay, darling,” I said to Pumblechook. “He won’t hurt you. It’s just The Black Cat.”

Anyone watching might have thought such reassurances absurd. The Black Cat was a tiny little thing, whereas Pumblechook was a giant, imposing Maine Coon. Had Pumblechook not endured whatever he had, no doubt it would have been The Black Cat cowering from him. 

The two continued to look at each other, and Pumblechook began putting his face forward, attempting to sniff The Black Cat. Although nothing bad was happening, and this might even be a good sign, I decided that it was enough for today. I picked up The Black Cat gently, and began to carry him outside. 

He struggled a little bit, and I said:

“You can come back tomorrow, darling, okay?”

I felt bad as I heard him meowing outside once I had shut the door on him. Inside, it was cozy and warm; there was food; there was another cat for him to play with. I hated effectively banishing him to the outdoors, but as well as easing Pumblechook to his presence slowly, I also needed time to think. 

For the rest of the night, Pumblechook seemed relatively normal, if a little excited and stimulated. I thought of whenever I had someone over. He would hide for the entire time they were here, and only tentatively emerge from his hiding place when they had been gone for at least half an hour. There was none of that today.

I had to think about this carefully. On the one hand, this was Pumblechook’s house, and I was so happy to be able to provide him this space that was his own. On the other, I knew that he would never entirely be comfortable with me, and was probably quite lonely. It might be good for him to have a little friend he could play with and who could keep him company. It may even make him more confident. 

If I did invite The Black Cat in, I had to think about what this would entail exactly. Was it just letting him run around for a little bit, and then putting him back outside each night? Would it be actively adopting him? In either case, should I take him to the vet so they could tell me if he was a stray, had been chipped etc. Aside from being a little thin, he didn’t look terrible, and maybe such an action might even seem weird. It would turn out that he did belong to someone else, and of course he belonged to someone else, and what I had effectively done was just take someone’s cat.

I had never wanted to have children, and everything that was happening now made me realise that this was probably a good thing. If there was this much stress and difficulty involved in getting a cat, then I couldn’t even imagine how hard it would be to cope with an actual human being. 

***

I decided for the next night that, whatever happened, it would be a good idea to have a little test run first. After feeding The Black Cat outside, I let him in. I couldn’t see Pumblechook, as I followed The Black Cat around. It was sweet watching him move through the house, sniffing everything and, once more, acting like he owned the place. There was a swagger and a confidence about him in this unfamiliar environment that was unremittingly adorable. 

“If you want to move in,” I said to him, “the rent’s six hundred a month, and I’ll need three months’ rent as a deposit.”

At this point, we turned into the kitchen, where we saw Pumblechook.

“Hey, darling, look,” I said. “Look who I brought to see you.”

The two began to sniff at each other as usual. I was tentatively smiling, feeling so happy that I could give Pumblechook this company. I imagined the two eating together, chasing each other through the house, lying next to each other at night. Then, suddenly, The Black Cat leapt forward, hissing at Pumblechook and trying to scratch him. 

“Hey!” I screamed, as a terrified Pumblechook ran off to one of his hiding places. The Black Cat also ran, and I chased after him.

“No!” I said. “Come back here!”

He made it into the living room, where he tried to hide under a table, but I grabbed him by the back of his neck before he could. As he tried to escape my grip, I was filled with fury as I thought of poor Pumblechook. I put The Black Cat outside, before firmly shutting the door behind me. 

I eventually found Pumblechook, in the little space behind the laundry hamper. I managed to coax him out with some of his yoghurt snacks. He would never usually get treats this late and after dinner, and he seemed to be aware of this as he cautiously crawled out and let me feed him. By the end of the evening, he made it as far into the living room, but he was by the door and continually alert, as if constantly expecting The Black Cat’s return. Each time I stood up to get something or go to the toilet, he would flinch but would not run.

I was glad that he trusted me this much again. The Black Cat had terrified him, and for all he knew this was an antagonist I had invited into the home. I was the same person, after all, who once a year would take him to the vet – i.e., put him in a cramped little box, ferry him to a strange sterile room where a stranger would prod and poke at him and maybe even stick a sharp needle in him. That was perhaps the worst aspect of this – the thought that Pumblechook might think I had done something to hurt him. 

***

My anger at the Black Cat began to dissipate. Although I felt awful for Pumblechook, and although I had been right to kick him out, he hadn’t known what he was doing. Pumblechook was much bigger than him, and maybe he had just felt threatened. He had no idea how skittish and scared Pumblechook was. Maybe, in his own way, he had even just been playing. I regretted shouting at him, and at handling him so roughly. But I did not regret kicking him out. As hard a decision as it was, I knew it was the right one.

And it was important that I continued to know this as I heard him outside meowing each night. Maybe he was a stray, maybe he did need somewhere to live, but this was Pumblechook’s house and Pumblechook had to be my priority. 

It was this, along with a liberal use of the TV’s volume control, that helped me remain resolute as he came back each night and meowed outside.

***

One night, I had been working late, and when I came back I saw him at the door. When he saw me, he meowed profusely and headed towards me. I was flooded with a desire to get down and pick him up and hug him. I would apologise for shouting at him, and I’d rush inside and get him his food. I’d let him inside again, and he’d strut around and purr in the warmth. 

When he got near to me, it took all my restraint to keep my hand by my side. As horrible as it was, I could not look at him, I could not even pet him. As tears began to form, I walked past him, not even looking in his direction. It felt terrible to ignore him, especially as he meowed and chirped behind me, but it was the kindest thing to do. All I would do by stroking him would be to get his hopes up and confuse him. Such kindness would be the cruellest thing I could do.

***

It was awful to hear The Black Cat meowing outside the door. There was a trajectory to them, beginning clear and urgent and finishing with a mournful resignation. Every night, I heard him meowing outside my door, and it really was a truly dreadful sound. 

But it was not as horrible as the night he didn’t meow, and everything was quiet.