The Monologue of the Black Cat

Sif 李佳颐 220110919

I am a cat, but not an ordinary one.

You must have read the masterpieces of Edgar Allan Poe. I, too, am fond of his stories. How intriguing they are! As a great literary giant, Mr. Poe undoubtedly possesses his pride and does not write just any article. Many people never have the chance to appear in his works throughout their lives! Of course, I am different from you; I am a black cat, which means I am the protagonist of Poe's famous short story, "The Black Cat." Next, I will guide you into Mr. Poe's essay from a cat's perspective.

I was originally wandering around the dock, begging for food by coaxing the sailors and wealthy passengers with my charming demeanor. But you see, I'm a black cat, and those superstitious sailors distance themselves from me, thinking I would bring "bad luck" to their voyages. They ignored my overtures and often hissed at me, which was really annoying! I hate humans! So, I couldn't rely on my adorable cat face anymore; instead, I had to depend on my sharp claws and agile body to snatch food from the mouths of stray dogs and seagulls at the dock. Surprisingly, I managed to keep my fur shiny and glossy, even better than when I begged and coaxed for food.

Near the dock is the so-called "wet market," where many live birds and animals are sold. Those with pretty appearances might be bought by kind-hearted people as pets. I wandered between the dock and the market every day and made quite a few "followers" there. What can I say? After all, I dare to fight with the fiercest wild dogs, and they don't.

There was a cat just like me, a black cat with shiny fur, even her face was similar to mine – after all, as cats, our faces are more or less the same. This black cat was obviously luckier than me; she didn't have to work hard to find food because she was for sale, living in a clean little cage. The stall owner would feed her chicken every day, and she drank goat 's milk. We cats called her "the lucky girl." I quickly became familiar with this lucky one, and in the process, we grew to look more and more alike. I told her about the waves on the sea, the songs of sailors and girls, and she, with a kind heart, would share half of her food with me. She was such a simple and good girl. Some friends might say at this point, "Come on, buddy, you're in love with her!" – To such people, I sneer. We noble cats are not like you humans, so filthy-minded. After all, she was indeed a good, too good, and extremely good girl, and I was just a tramp.

One day, the male and female protagonists in Poe' s story appeared. You must all know them; they were renowned for their kindness, especially the gentleman, who loved animals to an extreme degree. As animals, being taken away by such a family would be fortunate. I witnessed this kind couple take "the lucky girl" out of the cage, holding her in their arms and fondling her affectionately, taking her out of the vendor's hands with great love. Watching my girl gradually disappear with her new owners, I shrugged – if cats had shoulders – and thought, "Okay, no one will share food with me anymore. Goodbye, good girl."

After that kind couple took "the lucky girl" away, she indeed enjoyed a period of happiness – don't ask me how I know; we cats have our own intelligence network – in short, I knew she got along well with the other animals in the house, and the couple was kind to their pets. Except that the male owner would occasionally stare at them with a strange look in his eyes, but it was harmless, right? It seemed that our good girl had forgotten her past of fooling around with our wild kids in the market and was going to live a wealthy and happy life forever.

If things were really like this, then what more could I ask for? In reality, I didn't hear from "the lucky girl" for a while, but it was rumored that she had been injured. Happily, the wild dogs on the dock weren't around that day, and I finished eating relatively early. So, relying on my memory, I went to the couple's house. But where was the beautiful and gentle girl I knew? There was only a black, one-eyed, fragile cat – where were her eyes! She was blind! How could this be! I almost ran back to the dock in a daze, unable to believe what I had seen. Those two bright cat eyes of hers, which were just like mine, were now reduced to one!

That mistress, I believe, was a gentle and kind person. When I peeked in, she was busy cleaning up several broken vases in the living room. As for the master of the house, I'm not sure because he wasn't home. What I regretted most that day was not talking to "the lucky girl" because it turned out to be our last meeting. From then on, there was no second cat almost identical to me in the world.

On another rainy afternoon, the clouds seemed to be touching the ground. I felt uneasy and once again came near her house. I saw the male owner for the second time. He seemed to have changed a lot; he had grown a beard, his clothes were wrinkled, and he was filling a hole in the yard with a shovel. He smelled dangerous to us cats, so I waited until he left to approach. I searched around the yard and even dared to meow on the windowsill, but my good girl didn't respond. However, there was indeed her scent. I sniffed carefully with my nose, and the scent led me to the newly filled-up small mound of soil just where the master had been working. My mind went blank for a moment. I thought I would never find her again – no, I had found her – no, I didn't! A corner of my heart screamed that I would never see my good girl again. What was buried under this small mound of soil was probably only her black, little fur.

Grief is for the weak, and I am a strong black cat. I lay in ambush for several days, following that male owner – I prefer to call him the executioner. I followed him to a dim little tavern and slipped in unnoticed – you know, as a black cat, my color is the best camouflage, allowing me to sneak into many unexpected places. When I entered, the man was almost drunk and was complaining to others about how sad he was that his little black cat had "ran away". At that moment, he saw me, a black cat. Honorably, I looked so much like "the lucky girl" that the man stared at me with straight eyes, asking the tavern owner if he could take me home. For what purpose, heaven knows? Was he taking me as a replacement for "the lucky girl"? What would my fate be then, the same as hers? There was no time to think much; he took me home, which was, of course, within my plan.

In a trance, I also became the "lucky one" and enjoyed a good life in their house for a while. My lady of the house was a truly kind-hearted person, gentle and virtuous. In this day and age, having such a wife is better than anything else. As for my master of the house, well, he seemed perfectly normal, but I never forgot that my "lucky girl" was still buried alone in the cold earth, all thanks to him.

I am a penniless stray cat, naturally inferior to "the lucky girl." We looked alike, but she was pure black, while I had a small patch of white fur on my chest, just a tiny spot, irregular in shape and representing nothing. However, recently, that man stared at this white hair on my chest for longer and longer periods, looking pained, trembling with his hands, and muttering to himself. I didn't know what he saw in the white fur, although I admitted it did somewhat resemble a cross, which humans call a "crossroads."

I didn't know what pressure this "crossroads" pattern brought upon my male owner. It didn't mean anything, and a crossroads wouldn't judge you, right? I just stayed in his house, but it seemed like even that was wrong. He started beating me, yet the next day, he pretended to be guilty and sad, petting me with remorse. I waited, and eventually, he couldn't pretend anymore.

It was a rainy day again, a weather that always reminds people of disasters. My male owner strode into the house and picked me up by the back of my neck, tearing at the "crossroads" on my chest. I screamed, drawing the attention of my mistress – she was such a sweetheart. Seeing me in pain, she reached out to grab me. My master lost his grip for a moment, giving me a chance to escape and hide in the corner of the room. But then, I heard a loud bang behind me. I turned around in shock and saw my kind lady of the house with her eyes wide open, suddenly losing all her strength. Alright, later events were also written by Mr. Poe. My sweet mistress ended up with the same fate as "the lucky girl," disappearing and being stuffed into several sacks, never to play with me again. My respectable "benevolent" master, however, seemed unaffected by the whole ordeal, continuing with his work and social engagements as if he had never owned two black cats or had a wife.

During the chaos of that day, I managed to escape. As a tiny black cat, I hid behind the small mound of "the lucky girl" – thank you, dear girl, for protecting me until now. I watched with my own eyes as my master bought a huge pot and boiled "soup" all night, but the smell was far from appetizing; even as a cat, I felt nauseated by it. The next day, he hired a renovation team, falsely claiming that the wall had cracks, and had the workers tear it down. But he then sent them away and personally carried out my "mistress," who was enclosed in a dark sack, cold and foul-smelling. Yet my master seemed oblivious to the smell and sight, bricking his "former" wife into the wall himself. And as for me, I was not just a bystander.

After countless days, people finally began to realize vaguely that the "benevolent" master's wife was missing. The police searched every household and eventually arrived at my master's house. There were so many of them that they even trampled down the small mound of "the lucky girl." It was ridiculous. My master, a gentleman of breeding, calmly responded to the policemen's inquiries. His plan was so meticulous that he almost deceived God. When the policemen were preparing to leave in vain, he even pretended to be magnanimous and asked, "Shall we break open the wall to see?" How ironic and arrogant! Saying that, he knocked on the newly renovated wall, which was also precisely the "resting place" of my mistress.

Just then, Mr. Poe wrote, a sharp, baby-like crying sound came from within the wall, like an alarm bell and a horn. My master finally paled. As the policemen dug through the crying wall with shovels and carried out everything, a foul smell spread. My poor, kind-hearted mistress finally rested peacefully in the arms of the policemen. And what about the black cat forgotten by my master? Me? As for me – Voila! I, the black demon and phantom, stepped out of the hole in the wall with dignity. My throat had suffered from all that screaming just then.

My fur is black, a color suited for camouflage. When my master was carrying the bag stained dark red with blood towards the wall, I was leisurely lying in the corner of the same bag. My black fur concealed me from his sight, and I took advantage of the situation to be sealed into the wall.

As I mentioned at the beginning, I am a cat, but not an ordinary one.

Because baby, I am misfortune itself.