Black Jack

He just showed up one day last fall, and stayed. He was an adolescent-aged (maybe 4 or 5 months old) cat that seemed to enjoy hanging out with Daisy and Oreo, the typically disinterested resident felines. All black, except for a small white spot on his chest, he was clearly feral -- ran each time he saw us. Kennedy is always interested in our cats, and when she learned about this one, and saw his picture, she named him Black Jack. Because of our very favorite cat that was named Jack, I cannot call this little guy by the single name. He's Blackie or Black Jack to me. Or Baby. I don't call my cats "Kitty". They seem to resent it.

As the weather grew cooler the draw of the tinkling sound of dry catfood tumbling into the metal bowl on the carport became more alluring than his fear of humans. Some days Blackie watched from a distance while the other cats ate. Other days, he approached behind the other cats, eventually taking his turn. It wouldn't be hard to tame this cat. He didn't slink, and he seemed to be more timid than frightened. He appeared friendly. I liked him. I knew that someday he would like me too.



One day when I went to the carport to feed our cats, I poured the food into the bowl which I placed an arm's length from where I sat on the cement step by our back door. Oreo came running. Black Jack, close behind, peered thru the hole in the gate. He sized me up and decided to wait me out. It was cold out, and I didn't have a jacket on. He won. That time. I went inside, but knew we would play this game regularly, and eventually I would win.



I didn't rush. Trust is a huge part of friendship, and I knew that each time he saw me that I didn't press him, he would become more comfortable with me. One day he was so hungry -- or so impatient -- that he forgot himself and ran to the bowl with Oreo and began eating while I stood not far away. He quickly retreated when I took a step to go inside. This same scenario played out several times over a period of days or weeks, not daily, but whenever he was nearby when I refilled the bowl. I coaxed him, I talked to him, I assured him that I was his friend.

Then one day, it happened. He came to the bowl to eat while I was sitting within reach. I talked to Oreo and petted him. Then I reached out and touched this timid cat on his head while he ate. He didn't flinch or pull back. Gaining courage, I scratched him behind his ears. Oh my, he liked that. He stopped eating and soaked up all the affection I was pouring onto him. For a minute or so, it was as if we had been lifetime buddies. I cautiously stroked his back and ran my hand up his tail. No complaints. Eventually, I moved to get up. He quickly scampered a few steps away and sat and watched me go into the house.

Through the winter, Black Jack made a home in one of the cat cubes we put on our shed for Daisy and Oreo. I bought a third cube, and then learned that they seemed to prefer playing their own version of musical cat houses. Three was one too many. I never knew who would be in the cubes -- sometimes Daisy and Oreo, sometimes Oreo and Blackie, and sometimes Blackie and Daisy. The one who was left out would find another place to hang out -- either under the pine tree, or across the back fence in the Tenney's yard -- until he could sneak back in to a cube while another cat was out for a stretch.

Spring is here and the cubes are empty now more than they are inhabited. Blackie comes running with the other cats when I go outside, but he still keeps a comfortable distance until he remembers I'm his friend. He lets me pet him often and is genuinely happy about the affection.

So now Black Jack is part of the clan. But please note: he is not our cat. He just hangs out here with his buddies.