The writing challenge asks my reaction to a black cat crossing my path.
If THAT was to happen, I would scoop him up in my arms and check to see if he was our Sylvester.
He was 23 years old when he died in my eldest son’s arms and I still miss him every damn day since he left.
Sylvester came to us in a very sneaky way. It was show and tell day in grade one and a little girl in my son’s class brought a box full of kittens! (well-played, Mom *wink*)
Soon, the neighbourhood was full of black cats running around and he was but one of many for about five years.
From the start, he was the best cat ever. Chill. Low-maintenance. Independent.
He shared his home for the first few years with a very bitchy spaniel, so he learned to amuse himself in high places and outdoors.
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