I am by all cats hated. The motivation comes from an incident in my early youth, before right and wrong really. When the word thing is always preceded by the word play.
A fluffy white cat was a cat that I loved. A kitten. And one day it scratched me and I threw it across a room.
The four support planks between the legs of my dining table that I rest my feet on when I eat are the same ones I crawled onto to hide from the neighbours whose cat it was.
A week later it died. Maybe from some disease, maybe from some throwing I did.
And the cats know I did this. I am shunned, hissed at and ran from.
This is how myths are constructed. One time something happens. Spells are real, and they work, so long as you accept it works only in people’s heads.
And now I stroke my friend’s cat and she purrs and purrs and rolls over on her stomach for more stroking. As much as a cat can love this cat loves me. I have more or less stolen her ownership from my friend.
I fall asleep on the sofa and wake up with the black shape on my stomach. She stretches, purrs. I stroke her and think about white kittens. This cat must know too. Maybe I’m forgiven.
I push her off and roll over.