I'm walking home from the bus stop, a bag of groceries in each hand, and toting a backpack full of groceries as well. Less than 100 yards from my front door, a black cat walks in front of me. No big deal so far: I'm pretty sure this is one of the locals from the neighbourhood. Then, from under a porch, another local cat emerges, and I become the referee in an ears-back, shoulders-hunched, hissing, spitting bout of feline posturing. Again, it could be worse--it is the Christmas season, after all, and up to now I've been spared from having to face similar behaviour at an office party, or in a shopping mall. With or without my help, Cat Detente is re-established, and the would-be combatants slink off to neutral corners (after two trial runs in which each one darted briefly into traffic before bolting to safety).
I kneel to pick up the grocery bags which I'd set down on the ground as a precaution against the worst that angry cats and gravity could team up to do. I have company...the black cat has decided that my dedication to Peace on Earth and Goodwill to All Living Things makes me a worthwhile new acquaintance. After a couple of minutes of friendly how-do-you-do chin-rubbing and ear-scratching, I notice that the black cat has a few bits of dead leaves or bramble or burrdocks or some such stuck in the fur of its tail.
Never let it be said that I'm not accidentally prepared for anything. I happen to have a hairbrush in one of the pockets of my backpack, so in the spirit of neighbourly good fellowship, I try to brush as many of the sticky-stuck bits our of the cat's tail as I can. The cat, though fidgety, appreciates this, and rolls over on its back for a tummy rub. For those of you who haven't met a lot of cats, this is their equivalent of a Facebook friend request. I did the equivalent of clicking 'accept', which even those of you who haven't met a lot of cats can probably guess involves the asked-for tummy rub.
And this is how superstitions get started...
In less time than it took you to read the words 'in less time than', my right hand got turned into mincemeat. Some cats, and this was one of them, play hard, and play for keeps. Cold December air and a quickly-applied coffee shop serviette (always take extras, folks--they're free, and you never know when you might need one) kept the gutter from turning into a river of red, but the damage was done. I would have taken to my heels, but my new best friend kept zigzagging in and out of my path, in the hopes of extending Pussycat Playtime into extra innings, and possibly finagling its way into a new pied-a-terre, as I cat-slalomed the rest of the way back home.
One thing those of you who haven't already guessed it by now need to know before we move on: I'm a sucker for cats. This one, unneccessary roughness notwithstanding, might have successfully followed me all the way home if not for the fact that we have a cat...and one with a placid temperament that doesn't need to be upset by having a fur-bearing Mack the Knife shoved into her midst. I had just completed my third lap around my building before I was able to give MacHeath With Whiskers the slip long enough to sneak in the back door.
And this is how superstitions get started, because, as God (or Ceiling Cat) is my witness, every black cat I have ever known has been like this. You think you've got one of them pegged, and CHOMP! SLASH! off comes a layer of skin (yours), while Kitty looks at you as if to say "wasn't that a blast--wanna go again?"
Yessir, if there is a subset of the species felis domesticus prone to absolutely, positively unpredictable straitjacket-worthy nut-job-on-four-legs behaviour, it's the ones with the coats in the midnight hues. If one crosses your path, don't look to crystal balls or gypsies to tell you what sort of bad luck will happen to you, and when. Just check your shins for tell-tale lacerations.
But, as a card-carrying cat lover, I stress to all you ailurophobes out there that nothing like what's at this link is likely to befall you. So there.
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