My last fond memory of Mr. Black, “the very jaguar cat for blackness in the nightime,” will be his sitting on the wall of the old pond with M. Grey, both in the same pose, fishing with their tales. They figured out it would attract the seven goldfish. I wish I’d taken a picture. Mr Black died today, of something like poisoning or Kidney failure or Friskies disease, at about the ripe age of six. He’d spent the last few nights outside, and days in the garden chair with his friend Grey. He caught the best time of the summer, before the bugs came out much or things got any rougher for us, as will surely happen. He had been weak, then thin, and became noticeably sick Monday morning. He disappeared yesterday, till he stumbled up the sidewalk crying. I looked for him all morning, but he must have been paralyzed or in a coma in the yard somewhere.  He had a rough way down, but not nearly as bad as old Sophia.

   “Mr. Black is my best animal,” I would say, and tell Nemo Tiger when she was hissey, “She does not know that Mr. Black is a gentleman.” I’d praise his whiskers and his sharp sharp claws. “He is a better cat than Jack Ratchett is a dog.”

   When Mr. Grey was missing for two weeks last year, Mr. Black was “inconsolable.” Grey does not yet realize what has occurred-he is a bit slow. Mr. Black learned a great deal at the funeral of the local Tom cat from across the street, and would teach things to Mr. Grey, like fishing and “Do not go by the road.” But I don’t know yet whether Mr. Grey will see the funeral and burial. Calley Monster, the oldest, is already quite sad, crying last night before he was even gone.