GOOD NIGHT, NIGHT

The Night has come and gone.

We have all heard that phrase involving a literal evolution of light and darkness which occurs in the space of 24 hours, and on a recurring basis. And we’ve also heard the phrase used figuratively to imply a transition from a period of darkness into a season of joy.

However, the second word of the adage is generally not…capitalized, as I have done at the beginning.

In an earlier story, I alluded to a creature I called ‘Night.’ 

Night was a jet black feral cat. He made his appearance in my back yard a couple years ago. And I might say, his appearance was anything but appetizing to say the least. For you see, Night’s entire truck from just behind his neck to the tip of his tail appeared to be covered in mange. 

If you know me, you might imagine I felt sorry for the pitiful creature, and recognizing I had two options, to either contact Animal Services or (in effect) adopt the nasty beast, …I opted for the latter. 

As time progressed, I set out a plate of dog food and milk for Night as often as I saw him. He would come up at various hours of the day and evening, and as much as three days might elapse between visits. I always surmised he had to be getting food elsewhere given his sporadic appearances. Interestingly enough, at least to me,
Night’s apparent mange was apparently no mange at all, but a loss of fur due to malnutrition; since after he’d been around a while the feral feline’s entire body filled in with jet black hair.

For the longest time Night ‘bit the hand that fed him’ since as I placed the paper plate on the front porch, more times than not the creature would ‘haul off’ and scratch me. (Go figure).

Night hadn’t frequented our part of the world all that long when one day I noticed a terrible red wound on one side of his neck. And since there was absolutely no hope for treating it, due to his total lack of cooperation, I left him ‘to his own devices.’ (God forbid, I tried to pick him up). The wound never did completely heal, though at times it looked better than heretofore. Mostly, that horrible gash was as raw as ever, and I surmised he’d tangled with an opposing cat again; in a bid to establish his territory.

Eventually, Night began to limp, and I suspected it had little or nothing to do with arthritis. Sometimes his physical infirmity was hardly noticeable, and other times he walked like a ninety year old man. If he’d been gifted with the ability to speak, I think he might have said, “Yeah, but you should see the other guy!”

As a rule, I detest cats. Always have. Always will. Dogs are my kinda thing. Always have been. Always will be. But I’m also an old softie, and I can’t stand to see any animal suffer or go without food. I’m living proof that you don’t have to love an animal to ‘do for’ an animal. And I suppose if the truth was known, I developed a begrudging attachment to Night.

The black beast lived under my driveway in the drainage pipe which ran beneath it; at least when he frequented my neighborhood. More often than not, when I would first see him he’d be crawling out of the culvert, he would stretch himself, and make a beeline to the milk and meat mixture I’d prepared for him.

He’d been coming up less since we got back from vacation. We’d been back about three weeks, and I suppose I’d seen him all of three times. 

And then, nothing.

A week has elapsed since I’ve seen the ole boy, and I’m convinced he’s either succumbed to the ravages of time, or that nasty wound, and the microbes that accompany it have finally gotten the better of him.

I still look out my front window to see if perhaps he’ll crawl out of the pipe which runs under my driveway. And as I push my bike out my front door, and prepare for my 10 mile trek in the wee hours of the morning, I half way expect Night to scoot out from under my car, and make his hungry presence known to me.

But I’m convinced he’s not coming back this time.

Night has come and gone.

Good night, Night.

   By William McDonald, PhD. From (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 45. Copyright pending
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