Night

I am enamored with the night. It is my favorite time of the day. However, the title of this particular blog may be a bit misleading, since it is not about night, as we know it that I am referring here.

Night was, or is a cat; depending of course on the correct tense.

For you see, I have no earthly idea whether Night remains in the land of the living. The only thing I can be sure of is that he was alive, (but not well) when I left for vacation.

Night is (or was) a jet black feral cat. (Thus, his name). I first became acquainted with the not so lovable four legged beast several months ago. As I was mowing my backyard, I spotted him; a rather long, skinny wisp of a thing sporting what appeared to be mange along his entire mid and backside.

And though I have little or no use for cats, (dogs, after all, are my forte) this was about the time I decided to begin feeding him.

And oddly enough, (at least to me) as the weeks turned into months, what appeared to be mange filled in with the same black fur of his front quarter.

Night hardly showed up more often than the time of day from which his name was given. On good days, maybe twice. And each time he appeared, I would walk into the kitchen, take out a paper plate, heap six or eight ounces of dog food, (yes, dog food) on it, and pour a few ounces of milk around the entire mess.

And strangely enough, (at least to me) Night insisted on ignoring the old adage,

“Don’t bite the hand that feeds you;”

(since he did, and more than once).

For you see, as I stooped to put the plate on my front porch, and Night scurried up he might “haul off” and scratch me, or worse yet, forget my hand wasn’t intended as food.

That old feral cat appears/appeared (as the correct tense may be) to live in the culvert which runs beneath my driveway. For in recent months, whenever he showed up, he tended to slink out from the opening of that old rusty pipe.

And though his mange, or whatever it might properly be called, had long since faded away, perhaps as the result of better nutrition, a couple months ago Night began to sport a different injury.

A deep, nasty, red gash under his throat.

And I knew he’d been doing the mixed martial arts thing with another male cat.

(And to this day, I have no idea who won. Perhaps if Night had possessed the ability to talk, he might have said, “You should have seen the other guy!”)

At any rate, as time went by the wound seemed to be in the process of healing.

Until

a couple of weeks ago, when “lo and behold” that formerly nasty wound suddenly looked nastier than ever.

(I suppose he had been trying out his gladiatorial skills again, and this time I think it can safely be said, he was definitely the loser).

And as I inferred earlier, I just returned from vacation, and thus far, at least, that fragile old black cat

… is nowhere to be found.

Of course, I have mused whether my once a day efforts to feed him contributed just enough nutritional value to maintain his tenacious hold on life, and whether our having been gone a week and a half had just been too much for his doubtful little frame.

And though, as I have inferred, I have little or no use for cats, per se, I have found myself throwing back the front curtains, and scanning the lawn, and front porch for any sign of that pitiful little feline.

And I find myself hopeful that Night will appear again, at least as regularly as the time of day from whence he derived his name.

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 11

Post-script - It has been more than a week since we returned home from vacation, and "Night" has not appeared. I have to surmise that, given his nature for fighting and his general poor physical health, that Night has gone on to his reward.