The Black Cat

My grandmother had always adored black cats.

In a world full of people who insisted they were symbols of misfortune, she preached otherwise.

"The Egyptians were onto something with their worship of the black cat all those years ago," she would say whenever the topic was brought up.

I never understood her love for them, partly because I was more of a dog person, and I was allergic to cats.

But for her 80th birthday, my mother and I drove across the Bay Area to pick up a black kitten that had just been posted on an adoption site the night before. We hoped a small, furry companion would be just what my grandmother needed after my grandfather's unfortunate passing from a bad heart condition.

We arrived at a small townhouse on a rundown block, its paint peeling and front door broken. Fighting the heavy wind, I nervously opened the squeaky door, a bell chiming above my head. A young woman about 20 years old with a 'Volunteer' tag on her blue t-shirt looked up from her checklist.

She smiled widely, "Good morning. I'm Rose. You must be Cece."

"Yes. That's me," I said, letting my mom step inside and closing the loud door behind me. But it gets stuck just before it fully closes on the door frame.

"Don't mind the door. It does that sometimes," she says, gesturing behind her. "If you'll just follow me."

Despite the rough exterior, the adoption center was brightly lit, with a faint smell of paint and new furniture, masked by cinnamon candles.

It was oddly welcoming.

Rose led us to another room, where we filled out the proper paperwork and paid a small adoption fee. Then she took us back to a small lounge, where we were greeted by the sight of a black cat lying on the tallest beam of a fuzzy cat tower. Rose reached up to grab him.

“This is Willy,” she said, handing him to me.

Willy was a lot smaller in person. He weighed less than a feather and looked up at me with wide, green eyes.

“Now, he’s really friendly with new people,” Rose explained. “He does have a little bit of anxiety. He hides in some odd places, but that’s fairly common in older cats. He—”

I nodded along, but my mother quickly interrupted her.

“Older?”

Rose blinked, clearly not expecting the question. “We’re a little low on funding for the medical equipment to get a more precise estimate, but our veterinary staff believes Willy is about eleven years old.”

I looked down at Willy again and just barely noticed a few grey hairs beneath his chin.

“I apologize if this is a problem,” Rose continued gently. “Most people come here hoping to give kittens and puppies a new home, but the older ones… they’re almost always looking to return to one.”

My mother frowned, then looked back up at Willy. “It’s not a problem,” she said softly. “He’s perfect.”

She smiled in that quiet, knowing way that told me she was already picturing my grandmother holding him.

We signed the rest of the forms, took a few complimentary cans of food, and left with Willy bundled in a tiny carrier lined with a pink fleece blanket. He didn’t make a sound the entire car ride home, just blinked slowly through the bars at me.

When we arrived at my grandmother’s house, she was sitting in her favorite armchair by the window, a cup of chamomile tea steaming beside her, talking to the framed picture of my grandfather.

It was love at first sight when my mother placed Willy in her arms.

“My little Will!” she cried happily, holding him tightly, as if afraid the heavy winds outside might take him away.

She even lifted the framed photo of my grandfather, introducing Willy. "Isn't he just the prettiest boy you've ever seen, Aaron?"

Safe to say, I think he approved.

And for the next few weeks, they were inseparable. When he wasn’t in her arms, he lingered by her feet, purring softly to get her attention.

My daughters adored Willy, cradling him in their small arms and making him “watch” their silly, nonsensical cartoons whenever they were on.

Me? I was indifferent towards Willy. He always made my allergies flare up, and he knew it. He would mischievously brush his tail against my arm, making me sneeze and leaving my eyes stinging.

But none of that mattered when he brought so much light into my grandmother's life after such a dark time. Willy had lifted the dark cloud that had hung over her for months. He gave her someone to care for again, someone whose needs she could tend to with all the love she still had to give. Unlike my grandfather, for whom nothing more could be done, Willy gave her a reason to love again, and she poured everything she had into him.

Then, there came a time when he suddenly changed. He grew restless, snapping, hissing when we tried to pet him or coax him into using his litter box. He wouldn’t even let my daughters near him anymore, swiping at their hands if they got too close. He became sluggish, barely moving from my grandmother’s side, whether she was asleep in bed or sitting in her favorite chair.

My daughters grew afraid of him, which only made my grandmother more worried.

She began to fear that something inside Willy was hurting him. She said he’d stare at the wall some nights, his green eyes following something unseen, his ears twitching at faint sounds no one else could hear.

My grandmother's final straw came when Willy’s tail accidentally brushed against my grandfather’s photo, sending it tumbling from the mantel. The glass shattered across the hardwood floor, a sharp, awful sound that seemed to echo through the whole house. The edge of the frame split the photo inside, cutting straight through my grandfather’s smiling face.

“Oh my,” my grandmother gasped, her hand flying to her chest. “Willy!”

Willy only stared up at her, motionless, his green eyes wide and unblinking.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

My grandmother bent down slowly, her joints stiff, and gathered the torn photograph into her trembling hands. A tiny bead of blood welled on her thumb where the glass had nicked her. She didn’t seem to notice.

“Oh, Aaron,” she whispered, voice breaking. She traced the torn edge of his face with her finger.

When she looked up again, Willy had crept closer, pressing himself against her leg and letting out a low, rumbling purr.

The next day, I came by to help clean up the remaining glass. I pushed Willy away, scolding him for what he did. "Maybe we should give him away."

My grandmother told me there was no use in getting mad at Willy. “He doesn’t understand, Cece,” she’d say, shaking her head.

"Look at what he did!"

"I can't hate him for that! Something’s wrong inside him, poor boy.”

I was angry with my grandmother. That photo meant everything to her, years of laughter, love, and joy captured in a single image, especially since my grandfather had been the shyest man on the planet. It was her favorite photo of him, the one that perfectly captured the man she knew and was proud to call her soulmate.

And yet… she chose to defend Willy.

"Something needs to be done about him, Grandma," I argued. "The girls don't even wanna come by anymore."

My grandma was taken aback.

"They are scared of him!" I shouted. "I can't have them worried about whether he'll bite or scratch them. What if one day he decides to turn on you, too? What will you do then?"

My grandma rubbed her temple, not knowing what to do. "I can't throw him away just for that."

I regretted yelling at her and apologized by taking Willy to the Oakland adoption center, which had recently been renovated with a brand-new medical wing. Rose, now a veterinary intern, greeted us with a warm smile. She explained that increased sleeping and occasional aggression were common in older cats, especially when they’d grown deeply attached to a new owner.

I frowned, afraid to voice the darker thought lingering in my mind.

Rose caught my hesitation. “I wouldn’t even consider that,” she assured me gently. “Willy’s perfectly healthy. He’s not going anywhere anytime soon. But if this continues, you’re welcome to bring him back.”

I exhaled, tension leaving my shoulders. “Thank you, Rose.”

When I returned to my grandmother’s house later that day, I paused in the hallway, overhearing her voice coming from the bedroom.

“I’m afraid I can’t take care of him anymore,” she was saying softly into the phone. “Is there any way you could take him? He’s such a little bitty boy. He loves fuzzy blankets, and I promise you’d like him very much.”

“I’m sorry, Theodora,” the voice on the other end replied. “I already have four of them myself. It’s already hectic here.”

There was a pause.

My grandmother’s voice lowered. “I understand,” she said after a long moment.

“Try calling Harry and his wife,” the voice suggested. “Their grandkid wanted a kitten. Maybe they’ll take him.”

“I will,” she murmured. “Thank you for answering.”

When she finally hung up, I stepped quietly into the doorway. “Grandma?”

She turned, startled, and quickly dabbed at her eyes with the corner of a tissue. “Oh, Cece. I didn’t hear you come in.”

Her gaze flicked to Willy in my arms. “Is Willy doing well?”

“Perfectly healthy,” I said softly. “The vet says he’s just tired. Happens when they get older."

My grandmother smiled faintly at that, though it didn’t reach her eyes. "I wish I could take whatever's wrong with him away."

"He'll be okay, Grandma," I reassured her.

That night, after I left for home and tucked my daughters in, I called to check on her. She didn’t answer.

I told myself she was asleep; she often was by nine, and hung up.

But the next morning, when I stopped by to bring her fresh bread from the market, the house was silent.

Her tea sat cold on the table, and Willy was curled on her lap in the armchair by the window. His green eyes lifted toward me, slow and heavy, before he lowered his head again against her still hands.

I knew before I touched her.

The doctor said it must’ve happened sometime in the night; peaceful, quiet, the way she’d always said she wanted to go and by my grandfather.

Willy never left her side, not even when they came to take her away. When they finally pried him loose, he let out a single, low sound before darting off down the hall.

We searched the whole house, every room, every corner. But Willy was gone.

That was three weeks ago.

There was a time when all I wanted was to shove Willy away, especially after he ruined my grandfather’s photo. I couldn’t see past the chaos he caused. But now… now I would do anything, endure anything, just to see him again, the living piece of my grandmother’s heart that I once tried so hard to reject.