The last cat in our house was also pure black. It looked the same as the previous ones, but it was lazier. It was too lazy to catch mice, and it even stole food and steamed buns. The whole family hated it. When I was a child, it loved to jump into people's arms for people to pet, and the little sister Swallow played with it all day. It was one of the few toys that the little sister had. When setting up the house, it was placed in one place like a toy, and it remained motionless, and its eyes followed the little sister around until it was placed in another place, and it still lay there obediently.
Later, when the little sister grew up, she lost her fun, and the black cat became disobedient. Sometimes when she jumped into someone's arms, she was immediately pulled down and blocked her feet on the ground, and she would be hit either lightly or heavily. We seem to have lost patience with it. During those days, there happened to be a few annoying things in the family. I can't remember what they were. Anyway, there were days when life was not good for us, and we didn't have more energy to take care of the livestock. It seems that we have become a turnaround station. If life is better for us, we will care more about the things around us. We didn't save enough love and kindness in our hearts like we saved food so that we could give sparingly when we didn't have them in our lives. We never saved enough food in those years. Poverty is too long.
When the black cat was bored at home, it often went out, sometimes running around on the courtyard wall, and climbing up the tree to catch birds, but it never caught a single one. The seriousness with which it caught birds made people laugh, and its body was against the trunk of the tree, and it climbed up very gently, without even getting angry. However, no matter how light and silent its movements were, it always climbed to a distance of more than one meter from the bird, and the bird flew away. The black cat looked up at the sky for a while, and jumped down the tree helplessly.
It doesn't come home often in the future. We don't know what it's doing outside. Several families in the village lost their chickens at night. Some people saw that our black cat ate it and came to the house to find the cat.
It hasn't been home for months and has long since turned into a wildcat. father said.
Wild is also your family. If you want to refuse like this, the next time you meet me, I will be beaten to death and leave with a hum of popularity. Not a single chicken in our house has been lost. The black cat never showed up again, and we thought it had been beaten to death.
A few months later, just after the autumn harvest, one night, I heard the cat meowing on the roof, and kept meowing. I also heard the cat running back and forth on the house. I put on my clothes and went out, barked, and saw the black cat standing on the eaves, its head sticking down and barking at me. I didn't know what was wrong, but it was in a hurry to tell me something. I shouted a few times to get it down. It didn't come down, it just called at me. I was a little cold and went into the house to sleep.
I got under the covers and heard the cat meow for a while again, my voice hoarse. Then the cat's hooves stomped over the roof, and then I heard it jump on the haystack by the house, and there was no more sound.
The next year, also in autumn, I cut the bracts on the south beam. I finished breaking the rice more than ten days ago, and this year I collected two less carriage sticks than last year. We were a little angry, so we threw the bracts on the south beam for half a month and didn't pay attention to it.
The bracts of other people's houses have been cut back long ago and put on the haystacks. Animals have begun to be put in the field. We also see no reason to live with the bracts. They are dead. After breaking the bracts of the sticks, it is like a group of poor beggars in tattered clothes standing in the autumn wind.
Regardless of whether the harvest is large or small, the fields in autumn make people feel inexplicably sad, as if seeing themselves after many years, withered and trembling standing in the autumn wind. After many autumn harvests, people have become their last crop.
An animal ran swiftly in the bracts, ringing a bracts leaf. I straightened up, thinking it was a dog or a fox, and waited quietly with my scythe.
It came out of the valley four or five meters away from me. It was a black cat. I shouted, it stopped and looked back at me. It was the black cat in our house, it recognized me too, turned around and took two steps towards me, then stopped hesitantly. I called a few times, trying to get it to come over. It just looked at me and barked with its boobs. I walked to the carriage, took the bun out of the cloth bag, broke a piece and threw it to the black cat. It instinctively took a step forward, hugged the bun with its front paws, gnawed a small piece with its mouth, and looked up at me again. I told it to take two steps forward, and it took three steps back alertly, as if guessing that I was going to catch it. I walked towards it again, and it still backed away. Three or four steps apart, the cat suddenly made a very powerful expression, meowed twice, turned around and ran into the valley.
Only then did I realize the sickle in my hand. The black cat had been staring at my hand just now, and it obviously didn't trust me. The moment I got into the bracts, I noticed that one of its hind legs was a little lame. It must have been beaten. This encounter made it lose the last bit of trust in us. From now on, it will become a dead-hearted wild cat, leaving the village farther and farther. It knows what it is doing in the village. The villagers will not spare it.