One of my very best friends, Witchy, gave me a beautiful, hardcover, graphic novel the other day called Creatures of the Night. It contains two stories, the first of which is called The Price, about a little stray black cat that mysteriously gets battle wounds and scars every night. It turns out the black cat battles the Devil. During the nights when his adopted family takes him inside the house because he is too weak, bad things happen.
I really, seriously, believe that Crinkle was my black cat. He has hardly been gone a few weeks when I started getting sick. I am having problems sleeping; I can hardly keep any food down; and it feels as if Jo Rowling's fictional dementors are breeding outside my balcony. The other day, the rosary I keep 'round my rear view mirror broke. There are other things too, weird little mishaps around my home that has never happened before.
Crinkle cat was my lucky charm, my amulet against the ills of this world, and I feel so alone and unprotected without my kitty. He was only with me for a few years but a lot of good in my life took place then.
Sounds crazy, I know, but there it is.
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