Christine Davey pays tribute to the regal stray who became her life’s witness – and ankle-biting protector.

I found her under a grate in the middle of a busy street. Dusk. Cars whizzing by, joggers puffing past, without a shred of understanding of the momentous event about to take place. I heard a “meow” from somewhere below, in the almost dark. Bent down for a better look. Saw big yellow eyes staring back at me, a head shaking. I threw a hand around her wiggling body, brought her to the surface of the busy street. Had no idea, in that moment of spontaneity, that she’d be with me for 18 years. Through the good, bad, nothing, in between, through every sob, peal of laughter, every house move, new job, journey, beginning, end, death, birth, falling out, falling in, all of it. “Fine,” I said, tucking her – squirming, spitting – inside my jumper, “guess I’ve got a cat.”

I called her Blot because she was small and the colour of ink on a blank page. I called her Blot after a TV show Blott on the Landscape, about a character who changes lives, especially for those not wanting to change. She was sweet for a few weeks. Shy. And then she found her feet. This kitten became brave, unflinching, the terrorist of the house. Up curtains. Across couches. Over arms, legs, heads. Ripping shreds from everything except the scratching post purchased for ripping. As she grew, Blot moved on from terrorising furniture to humans. Particularly housemates who made quips about the “bad luck of black cats”. She knew. Planned her revenge, served it cold. Hiding behind doors, then leaping on unsuspecting ankles with bared teeth and no remorse. Blot had attitude. Cattitude. Blot was queen. And those who came for the queen always missed, and received bloodied ankles for their efforts.

Years flew by, as years do when they are busy. Blot grew older and slower. She still ambushed housemates, but her aim wasn’t quite so sharp. She needed longer sleeps between attacks. Her heart was only halfway in it. Still, she was Blot. My companion, my sidekick. She saw it all and, like a true, true friend, kept secrets. Listened to stories, sorrows. Giggles in the dark. Cuddled with me when I needed it. When the world was too much trouble, too angry or cruel, and the only antidote was a black cat and a low purr and Blot, the changer of lives in the crook of my elbow. Relationships were her speciality. She adored the emotional roller-coaster. During one breakup my soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend said, “Sometimes I think you love that cat more than me.” I didn’t answer. No need. He moved out the next day as Blot sat on the windowsill and watched, licking her paws as he drove away. Machiavelli in feline form. Counting the spoils of war.

I bought my own home, a tiny, rundown weatherboard in a tiny, rundown rural town. Blot moved onto her new windowsill. Surveyed the universe outside. Kids on bikes. Old women walking garden-variety mutts. Junior footballers off to training at the parched-dry oval across the road. She closed her eyes, decided against participating in any of it and curled into sleep. I had other cats by then. And dogs. And chooks. And foster kids who knew to “leave the black cat alone because she’s not in a playful mood”. Old, but still queen. The queen does not cease being queen because others arrive in the queendom. Blot settled into her dotage – undignified, selfish and independent. She was deaf. Arthritic. She no longer felt the need to shred ankles. She had earned her rest. And when the world was too big, I let her sneak into the crook of my elbow and lie there, for as long as she wanted, for as long as it took her to remember that she had always been brave and unflinching.

A Tuesday. I was in a hurry. Started the car, backed it down the driveway, heard the thump. She was deaf. Didn’t hear the engine. Arthritic. Didn’t get out of the way quick enough. She limped under the house. I heard a cry. Crawled under. Saw her big yellow eyes staring back at me. I threw a hand around her body and brought her to the surface. The Queen died on my lap halfway to the vet. I pulled over on the gravel road between somewhere and nowhere. Shut off the engine. All was still. No birds. Traffic. No wind in the trees. Nothing to mark the momentous event that had taken place. Blot, the changer of lives, was gone. I sat with her until the sun flinched and dusk descended, and it was time for us to go home.

These days I have another black cat, Jane Austen. She is funny and affectionate and not the least bit queenly. She’d rather sit on my lap than a windowsill. Love is long. Love is wide. On the very best of days, love is for black cats that change everything forever.

By Christine Davey @christinedaveywriter

Christine Davey is a regional playwright and screenwriter living on Wadawurrung country. She writes about the marginalised and historically sidelined.

 Published in ed#735

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