black cat

There's this feral, black cat that has made it's home in our crumbling garage. I think the cat has mange, judging from the large hairless chunks that have been removed from it's side. It has these green, cold, dead eyes and it sleeps on a once exhibited, sagging sculpture that entropy is slowly (maybe too slowly) enveloping. Our non feral cats won't chase it away and seem semi-content with their new roommate. Big Sir is not content with this new roommate and has suggested shooting it with a BB gun, much to my horror and dismay. Where he sees a sly, unwelcome intruder, I see a small, scared creature that has never known love in this world. Or if it has, it was long ago and probably ended brutally. Even our meaner cat knows that she is cared for and I believe, is somewhat less mean for it. When I see Blackie curled up on the sculpture it makes me feel good that we have unwittingly created a home for a living thing with a (probably) unpleasant life. I guess Big Sir and I are experiencing a natural gender difference. Protector vs. Nurturer. It may sound silly, but seeing this cat every day or every other day, has made me reflect on how fortunate I am to experience love in this world. I actually teared up, in gratitude, thinking about this the other day. Of course, this hasn't inspired me to trap the cat, take it to the vet, and have the mange treated. Reflection is less complicated than action.