Not two seconds after I snapped the last of my somewhat futile attempts to capture a gorgeous Friday the 13th moon, Molly shouted, “Hey look! A black cat is crossing our path!”
Trapped between a honey moonlit Lake Winnebago and our car, we watched the feral beast dance past. I thought I saw him pause for a moment, lift his paws to tiny ears and stick a cocky pink tongue out at us.
I shrugged off the ghost of my superstitious grandma, who would have considered an end-around-swim across the largest land-locked lake in the country to be a reasonable solution to our predicament, and soldiered on.
Could there be a more festive evening for black cats than a Strawberry Moon Friday the 13th?
Judging by our experience, I’m guessing not.
Prior to our ill-fated drive to the lake, we saw another black cat race across our driveway and disappear into our neighbor’s hedge.
Two black cats in a one evening? What are the odds? What are the implications? What would my grandmother say?
I pondered these questions as I brushed my teeth in front of a recently cracked mirror.
What is bad luck anyway? Did Leonardo Da Vinci paint the Last Supper with diabolical intent? Did he chuckle with each brush stroke as he single-handedly directed humankind into a world where elevators skip the 13th floor, and spilled salt spells doom?
I imagine black cats the world over lying in wait and springing forth at the last possible second to mosey past horrified humans. Do mama black cats whisper in their kittens’ ears, “Oh, sweet child, we’re going to have such fun tormenting these yahoos?”
I’m not saying I’m going to go around stepping on sidewalk cracks. Who wants to take that chance?
I’m just thinking, with all due respect to Grandma Fey, that it seems a little crazy to play by these arbitrary rules.
Two black cats and a cracked mirror won’t stop me from believing the next seven years are going to bring plenty of joy.
Knock wood.
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