BLACK CAT DAWN
I stared at the cats.
The cats stared back.
Until you’ve been caught in the baleful green beam of several hundred cats’ eyes, you’ve never really known what it’s like to be looked at.
I’d woken up with no particular expectations of what the day would bring. Stumbled out of bed with nothing weightier on my mind than my morning toast. Had the end of the bread gone mouldy? Would I need to defrost a bagel? The question occupied the whole of my sleep-dulled brain, right up until I drew back the curtains to let the weak winter sunshine in – and saw them.
Black cats crouched on every available surface, their fur sleek and gleaming in the grey dawn light. The grass, the fence, the bins, the roof of the car: all submerged in a frozen sea of felines, watching and waiting, motionless except for the twitch of an ear or the flick of a tail.
And their collective gaze was fixed on my bedroom window.
My pulse accelerating until it was little more than a hum, I sidestepped. A multitude of heads turned to follow me. I stepped back again; they followed. The green eyes were unblinking. The silence pressed in on me.
I reached for the catch, ready to fling the window open – a squirt from the water pistol I kept ready on the sill usually served to scare off my neighbour’s old ginger tom – but hesitated with my hand touching the glass. What stopped me wasn’t the thought that what worked on one cat might not work on a clowder of the damn things. It was the realisation that I really couldn’t take that much bad luck. Because if one black cat walking away from you is unlucky to the tune of, say, a paper cut or a dropped glass, hundreds of black cats fleeing from you in panic has got to be worth at least a broken leg. Maybe even instant death.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the clock on my wall. I couldn't make out the time – and I didn't dare to glance away from the cats in case they moved while I wasn't looking – but I could hear it ticking. I was going to be late for work. I couldn't wade through hundreds of furry bodies to get to my car, and superstition said I couldn't chase them off. Be prepared for every eventuality, my boss always said. I'd taken it to mean I should be flexible. Open-minded. Willing to adapt to circumstance. Not that I should know how to deal with the arrival of what must be every black cat in the county on my doorstep.
I stared at the cats and the cats stared back. Stalemate.
Then it occurred to me. A black cat turning its back on you: unlucky. But a black cat crossing your path …
Tearing myself away from their hypnotic gaze, I raced downstairs. As I frantically hunted through every cupboard in the kitchen, the yowling began. First one, then a dozen, then hundreds of feline voices raised in mournful chorus. Trying unsuccessfully to block out the sound with my shoulders, I opened cans of corned beef, packets of biscuits, tin after tin of tuna. I staggered to the fridge and added sausages and several good slices of bacon to the pile. Then, finally, I wrenched open the door.
And in they came.
Their backs were a midnight flood, undulating past my feet as I stood there pressed against the doorframe. Their feet drummed softly on the carpet like rain on the roof. Not one of them looked at me; their attention was fixed solely on the heap of food I had left on the floor. As the kitchen filled up, they began to diverge through doors and up stairs until the whole house seemed full of cat. A flickering whisker, a waving tail, and the last one had passed me by.
I left them there fighting over the bacon, pulled on a pair of boots to cover my bedsocks and a coat to hide my pyjamas, and walked out to the car. Never mind getting dressed. Never mind work. Never mind the mess that was currently being made of my furniture. I was going straight to the nearest supermarket to buy a lottery ticket.
Two hundred black cats had just crossed my path, and that had to be good for something.
The cats stared back.
Until you’ve been caught in the baleful green beam of several hundred cats’ eyes, you’ve never really known what it’s like to be looked at.
I’d woken up with no particular expectations of what the day would bring. Stumbled out of bed with nothing weightier on my mind than my morning toast. Had the end of the bread gone mouldy? Would I need to defrost a bagel? The question occupied the whole of my sleep-dulled brain, right up until I drew back the curtains to let the weak winter sunshine in – and saw them.
Black cats crouched on every available surface, their fur sleek and gleaming in the grey dawn light. The grass, the fence, the bins, the roof of the car: all submerged in a frozen sea of felines, watching and waiting, motionless except for the twitch of an ear or the flick of a tail.
And their collective gaze was fixed on my bedroom window.
My pulse accelerating until it was little more than a hum, I sidestepped. A multitude of heads turned to follow me. I stepped back again; they followed. The green eyes were unblinking. The silence pressed in on me.
I reached for the catch, ready to fling the window open – a squirt from the water pistol I kept ready on the sill usually served to scare off my neighbour’s old ginger tom – but hesitated with my hand touching the glass. What stopped me wasn’t the thought that what worked on one cat might not work on a clowder of the damn things. It was the realisation that I really couldn’t take that much bad luck. Because if one black cat walking away from you is unlucky to the tune of, say, a paper cut or a dropped glass, hundreds of black cats fleeing from you in panic has got to be worth at least a broken leg. Maybe even instant death.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the clock on my wall. I couldn't make out the time – and I didn't dare to glance away from the cats in case they moved while I wasn't looking – but I could hear it ticking. I was going to be late for work. I couldn't wade through hundreds of furry bodies to get to my car, and superstition said I couldn't chase them off. Be prepared for every eventuality, my boss always said. I'd taken it to mean I should be flexible. Open-minded. Willing to adapt to circumstance. Not that I should know how to deal with the arrival of what must be every black cat in the county on my doorstep.
I stared at the cats and the cats stared back. Stalemate.
Then it occurred to me. A black cat turning its back on you: unlucky. But a black cat crossing your path …
Tearing myself away from their hypnotic gaze, I raced downstairs. As I frantically hunted through every cupboard in the kitchen, the yowling began. First one, then a dozen, then hundreds of feline voices raised in mournful chorus. Trying unsuccessfully to block out the sound with my shoulders, I opened cans of corned beef, packets of biscuits, tin after tin of tuna. I staggered to the fridge and added sausages and several good slices of bacon to the pile. Then, finally, I wrenched open the door.
And in they came.
Their backs were a midnight flood, undulating past my feet as I stood there pressed against the doorframe. Their feet drummed softly on the carpet like rain on the roof. Not one of them looked at me; their attention was fixed solely on the heap of food I had left on the floor. As the kitchen filled up, they began to diverge through doors and up stairs until the whole house seemed full of cat. A flickering whisker, a waving tail, and the last one had passed me by.
I left them there fighting over the bacon, pulled on a pair of boots to cover my bedsocks and a coat to hide my pyjamas, and walked out to the car. Never mind getting dressed. Never mind work. Never mind the mess that was currently being made of my furniture. I was going straight to the nearest supermarket to buy a lottery ticket.
Two hundred black cats had just crossed my path, and that had to be good for something.
