When I first saw the black cat I was happy for my cat, Lacy, who had grown stand-offish in her old age. Content just to be left to her own devices, she would sit outside by herself for hours at a time. Now, where-ever she went, the black cat went with her. She had grown a shadow. He was the perfect escort and a gentleman.

They ate together, though he never seemed to eat much, but instead watched her eat with sad eyes. I was grateful that she had someone to look out for her while I was at work, or if it was a good day- the occasional date.

Before I knew it, a week had passed since I first laid eyes on the black cat. I woke up to find both cats sitting on my chest. Lacy was stooped over, her shoulders slumped as if her head had grown too heavy for her. As I reached out to her, she meowed once, a sad and pitiful sound, and passed away.

After I buried her, the black cat never returned. It was a long time before I noticed that on the day that she died, there had been weight on only one side of my chest.