Black Cat Friday

Leaving work just before dusk on a Friday night late in summer, I see a black cat outside the University Library. While I am admittedly a tad superstitious, this cat is very unsettling, not because of her coloring but because of her placement. Just days earlier, a boy jumped from this very building, dying on the cement where this cat now rests. This event has been haunting me for days. I cannot rid myself of the images burned into my memory. I wish I could erase them. I wish I could press the rewind button and change the events of that day. But life doesn’t have a master control and I am left with the uneasy task of coping with what I have witnessed.

What is odd about this cat is my sighting of her. In the twelve years I have worked at this University, I have never seen a cat on the grounds, much less so close to the building. She eyes me cautiously. She is a young cat, less than a year old judging by her size. After a few moments of watching each other, she slowly walks away from me, looking back every so often to see where I am. I feel compelled to follow her. I talk to her in a low and calm voice, “Kitty, come here kitty. I just want to pet you.” She quickens her pace. I continue to follow her around the building. Although we are surrounded by trees and small bushes, she never leaves the cement. I try to get close enough to touch her but she runs away. She reminds me of this boy, lost in his own sadness, too scared and untrusting to allow anyone to share whatever burden he must have been carrying.

The cat is obviously hungry. She finds what looks like peanuts scattered on the cement and begins to eat. I tell her I can get her food if she will just trust me, but I get one step too close and she runs off. We circle each other on the cement for a quarter of an hour. She looks tired. I wish she would simply give in and let me pick her up. I want to bring her home with me, give her a warm place to sleep and plenty of food. I slowly inch my way toward her. When I get close enough, I grab for her. She scrambles away quickly, terrified of my sudden movement. I watch her hide under a bush. I wait patiently and eventually she slowly emerges from her hiding spot. She cautiously makes her way back onto the cement, only feet away from me. I pour some water from my water bottle into the top of the container and leave it for her. I back away from it to let her drink, which she does, guardedly.

After an hour of chasing her back and forth across the cement, I begin to realize that I won’t be able to catch her. She doesn’t want to be caught. She once again retreats under a bush. As I turn to leave, she gradually comes back out, watchful of my every movement. I must accept her decision to stay in this unpredictable and unsafe environment. I know her chances of survival when winter comes will be questionable, but I must let her go. Life is fragile. There are times when no one can help because the help isn’t wanted. We must find a way to cope with our own best intentions. Sometimes they just don’t work.