Let us begin…

Greetings, human beings. My name is Sebastian and I am a black cat.

Cats are not usually storytellers. Most of us prefer a solitary patch of warm sunlight, sixteen-hour naps and our meals served in porcelain bowls away from the family dog. But ever since I was a kitten, I could understand words. I thought all animals did. But as you will learn in this adventure, black cats have a particular gift of language. No wonder we are often paired with witches in fairy tales, or have silly superstitions written about us, like if we cross your path it is bad luck. I promise, dear reader, nothing bad will happen if I mosey in front of you!

Human words have always fascinated me. My back arches with pleasure whenever I hear words like discombobulated or flibbertigibbet. So, when it came time to record this story for posterity, my companions voted that I dictate our tale. Deidre, my human, will have to put this into written form, since one cannot type with paws. But we do have to hurry before I lose my power of speech – yes, you read correctly. I can speak. But alas, this gift may soon leave me, so onward with our story.

I get three companions

Our tale begins on a beach where I lived the first five of my designated nine lives. During this juvenile period, I was what humans rudely call feral. In reality, I was simply roughing it. If I had wanted a permanent home, I can purr, leg rub and lap kneed with the best of my species. I just had not found the right human. I survived by hunting, digging up saltwater treats and dumpster diving before the humongous truck took away the leftovers. Oh, that is another good word – humongous! It even sounds big! But I digress. Be warned, I do that often.

In my sixth life, a skinny, eleven-year old girl named Deidre rescued me from stone throwing teenagers near an abandoned fishing shed.

“Leave him alone!” she had screamed, charging up the ramp on her thoroughbred, sending the hooligans scattering. The courageous horse leapt right onto the collapsing porch, her sleek, bold head held high.

“Yeah, right, who’s brave now!” Deidre called after the lowlifes. “How about a few hoof prints on your behinds before you go?”

She hopped out of the saddle and cautiously approached me as I hid under some cracked boards. “It’s okay, you can come out. Those nasty boys are gone.” She held out her index finger. I slid out into the open and slowly rubbed my nose along it. Her dirty, dry finger smelled like a horse and I loved it. I loved her. I let her pick me up, and for the first time, I truly understood the word home. I felt at home in Deidre’s arms.

“I bet you have some stories to tell, eh, tough guy?” she asked, stroking my fur.

I most certainly did. I had seen ancient creatures crawl out of the sea to lay their eggs and huge mammals leap into the air, flapping their tails like a kitten playing with a feather. But since I could only “meow,” I allowed myself to purr, the international cat expression of happiness. Deidre smiled down at me and scratched behind my ears. Want to put a cat in a trance? Scratch behind his ears!

“Brrrrrkkk!” A rooster’s dinosaur eyeball suddenly glared at me a few inches from my nose. His three-pronged legs stuck out straight from a baby carrier hanging in front of Deidre.

“This is Henry.” She rubbed the rooster’s bright, red comb. “Be nice to him. He lost his hens to a fox a few months ago and he’s still depressed about it.”

Henry let out a long, involved series of clucks that I figured meant something like, “it was horrible, I tried to stop him, I almost died, my heart is broken…”

“This rooster is a talker,” I thought.

For the record, non-humans are excellent at figuring out what we are trying to say to each other, even without words. Nature is always communicating. You just need to pay attention.

“Are you good at catching mice?” Deidre asked. “Our barn needs a good mouser.”

I gave her an obvious stare that said, “Excellent, of course. How else do you think I survived these last six lives?”

“I’ll take that stare as a “yes.” She placed me in the crook of her arm and swung back into the saddle. Henry let out another series of clucks that I knew meant, “Move over, I ride in front.”

Not wanting to cause a fuss, I hopped back onto the thoroughbred’s hindquarters. She did a few, quick steps in place, unsure if she liked my paws on her backside.

“Relax, Winny. We’re adopting a cat. His name is…”

I really did not want to end up being called “Fluffy,” “Spooky,” or any other cutesy cat name. I already had a name given to me by my mother before she and my siblings disappeared into a van with the letters “A-N-I-M-A-L C-O-N-T-R-O-L.” I focused hard on Deidre and thought, “Sebastian. Sebastian. Sebastian.”

“…Sebastian,” said Deidre. “His name is Sebastian, everybody. He’s our new barn mate.”

At that time, I was unaware that black cats could focus their thoughts and connect with a human that way. I was just grateful not to be “Midnight” for the rest of my life.

From that day forward, I dedicated the rest of my lives to Deidre. Any human who would barrel on horseback into stone-throwing battle to rescue a mangy cat deserved my forever fealty. With Deidre came two other companions: Henry the depressed Rhode Island Red Rooster and a speed obsessed, ex-racehorse named Winny.