Blackie the Cat

I have a new pet. It's a cat. I'm pretty sure she's a girl. I've named her "Blackie." This cat skulks around my yard. For a long time she was hanging out in my neighbor Tyler's yard. He set up a trap to catch her because she was leaving "stuff" in his yard. He went on and on about how much he hates cats, how he wanted this cat dead, etc. He was kind of laughing when he said it, but there was a creepy seriousness in his eyes.

When I'm walking the dogs, I always see the cat at this apartment complex down the street with two other cats: a teenage black cat and a black kitten. But when Blackie comes in my yard, she's always alone. Last week my sister gave Blackie some wet dog food. We felt bad for the thing; she's really scrawny. Right now she's chowing down some wet cat food I bought for her at Whole Foods (29 cents a can. Can you believe it?). Just now she looked up at me with her bright green eyes and licked her chops. Whenever I come near her, she dashes off. But she likes me, I can tell.

I'm not a cat person by a long shot. But there's some kind of weird bond between Blackie and me. I'll take care of her. Already, after a week, she looks so much better. She likes to sleep in the garden in my front yard.

I named the cat after the protagonist in my friend Lisa Davis's amazing '40s noir novel UNDER THE MINK. Blackie Cole (née Blanche Cohen) is a tuxedo-wearin' butch who sings at a mafia-run nightclub called The Candy Box. I actually came up with the title for the book; the rest of it comes from the genius mind of Lisa. She's in her sixties, and she's honestly one of the best, warmest, dearest friends I've ever had. I miss her a lot. I really should call her.