The Strange -- But True -- Tale of the Black Cat Cafe...

A few years ago my husband and I were attending weekly evening meetings in a town about 15 miles from where we lived in Northern California and we developed the custom of stopping at a tiny village bar and eatery that was on the way back home to have a beer and partake of one of the eatery's delicious hamburgers.

After a couple of months of this routine, we became quite friendly with the proprietor, a lady in her 60s, a few of the other regular patrons, several of the employees and members of their families who would occasionally stop by.

Situated next to the now rarely-used railroad tracks that run through the little village, the building that housed the eatery had been built in the 1800s in an unusual, triangular style called "flat iron" with the eatery below and several small apartments on the floor above it.

One evening, while I was smoking an after-dinner cigarette in the patio area behind the eatery, I noticed a small, fine-boned, jet black cat with the greenest of striking, green eyes loitering about and, being a consummate cat-lover (with a very special place in my heart dedicated to black cats), I called the little cat over. 

It took only a second for me to tell that the little kitty was female as she was heavy at that point with kittens. An extremely friendly animal, she rubbed against my legs and even jumped up into my lap as I petted and talked to her.

The husband of one of the waitresses who happened to be smoking a cigarette out on the patio at the same time said to me, "Oh, I see you've met Raider."

"Oh, is Raider her name?" I replied, "Well, she sure is a friendly little thing - and very, very preggers!"

About that time, one of the waitresses came out of the back door of the establishment with a garbage can to dump it into the dumpster that sat to one side of a small shed located just off the patio and, overhearing part of my conversation with the other waitress' husband, she interjected, "Somebody named her Raider -- seems like there's nothing but Raider fans around here." (Referring, of course, to the football team, the "Oakland Raiders").

The woman stopped, set down the can she was carrying, called Raider over and stroked the top of her head.

"Yep," she said as she continued stroking Raider's head, "She just came walking down the railroad tracks one day a few weeks ago and took up with us. Poor little thing, no telling how long she's been wandering around without a home. Well, she's the ‘bar cat' now and she lives in the shed over there. She's a really good mouser, aren't you, kitty?" the woman added -- scratching Raider under the chin.

Raider purred and rubbed against the woman's legs as if to say, "I like it here and I'll catch a mouse every day if you keep giving me those delicious hamburger scraps."

Back at home, my own faithful black kitty, Loki (that I'd adopted from the pound when he was 4 years old and had been with my husband and me for some 14 years), was, tragically, on his "last legs". He was barely eating and wobbled when he walked or stood -- a mere emaciated shadow of his former self.

It killed me to see him that way -- having been a beautiful, shiny, healthy cat for all of his life with us. During the few previous weeks, he seemed to have lost control even over his always-impeccable potty habits. 

I tried to put out of my mind the sad fact that Loki would not last much longer but, occasionally, I would catch him staring at me with a look that seemed to say, "I've been a good companion to you and loved you all this time. How could you let me go on suffering this way?" 

One evening as Loki was looking into my eyes with just such a look, I knew I could no longer deny what had to be done.  It was then that I experienced a kind of epiphany: I could no longer escape the fact that I must have Loki put to sleep. It would have more than cruel to allow him to go on, day after day, plainly suffering, only to die a slow and painful death. I had rescued him from euthanasia at the pound 14 years earlier and my responsibility to put an end to his horrible suffering was now inescapable...

Suddenly, a mental image of the pregnant Raider flashed through my mind and the thought strengthened me with the resolve I knew I would need in order to carry out my duties as a devoted pet-lover.

When I broached the subject with him, my husband, who is my rock at these difficult times, said, "I'll take Loki to do what has to done. It's not right to let him suffer like this. He's been such a good kitty to us all this time. . . Let me take care it -- I think having to watch you go through it would be worse than having to do it myself."

The next day, after I hugged Loki, stroked his head and told him that I loved him, my husband put Loki in the car and left. I never saw Loki again. 

At the little village eatery the following night, I hailed the waitress that I'd talked to about Raider before: 

"Do you have homes in mind yet for all of Raider's kittens when they're born?" I inquired.

"Well," she answered, "I've had a couple of people say they would take one. . . We've started a donation jar at the bar to have her and all of the kittens spayed or neutered and get all of their shots when they're born, though."

"Here," I said, handing her a twenty-dollar bill, "Put this in the jar and, if Raider has a male kitten that looks like her -- black with green eyes -- I want him."

"Sure," the woman replied, "It looks like she's going to have them any day now, too, so, we'll find out. Let me have your phone number and I'll call you the minute we find out."

Driving home from the meeting that night, I felt a tiny ray of comfort start to grow in the pit of my stomach which slowly spread -- taking the place of the anguish that had been festering there since the death of Loki.

A day or two later the phone rang: "You're in luck!" the waitress on the other end of the line said, "Raider had five kittens last night and all of them are either tabbies or calicos -- save one. He was the last one born and he's a little smaller than the rest but he's black as midnight and, from what I can tell, he's got those same green eyes. We're going to let the kittens stay with their mother for a few weeks. It's not good to take them away too young. . ."

"I agree," I told her, "Call me back when you think they're ready to be adopted." 

I hung up the phone smiling and thinking to myself, the little, black runt of the litter, huh?

I've always had a soft spot for runts. It's always seemed to me as though runts are blessed with more personality than the rest of the litter. Perhaps it's because they have to put out more effort in order to gain their mother's attention that makes them more assertive -- I don't know but, they all seem to have some special, little spark of something that makes them special creatures in my eyes... 

Some weeks later, when the day came to go get the kitten, I excitedly put a small blanket inside a large, lidded basket and we headed off to the little village.  

As we pulled up in the alley beside the eatery, I could see a large cardboard box on the patio area with one of the waitresses standing beside it.

Jumping out of the car, I ran excitedly up to the box and the waitress, without saying a word, just smiled, bent down, reached into the box and pulled up a tiny, black ball of fur which she then held out to me.

"Well, here he is!" she finally spoke, "The runt of the litter!"

I scooped the kitten out of her hands and looked into the eyes that were already starting to show a flash of green through the hazy blue that is common with newborn kittens. 

"What a cutie!" I gushed -- cuddling him to my cheek. 

Suddenly I realized that I hadn't given even one thought to what I was going to name the kitten.

His mother's name is Raider, I pondered - my mind clicking from thought to thought, Let's see, what do I know about the Raiders football team? 

In a flash of insight, an image from my early college days crystallized in my mind. I could see myself sitting in my apartment -- my first place on my own -- during those first two years...

How I'd struggled to furnish those three tiny rooms! My "sofa" was the mattress of a twin bed that sat, frameless, on the floor covered with a quilt that my mother made. No dining room table or chairs, the only other pieces of furniture I owned were the dresser and bookshelves from my old bedroom set back home and, my mother having just purchased a big, brand-new, color TV set at the time, had given me her old black and white TV set "just for something to watch".

Cable TV was luxury that was way out of my reach at the time, so -- hooked up to the outside antenna that still spired up from the rooftop of the apartment building -- I had the grand luxury of four channels. (Well, five, if you had a reasonable tolerance for snow and static...)

I've never been much for sports but there wasn't a lot of choice of TV programs, you see, so I wound up watching a lot of football games that year and the next and, by chance, those years happened to be the same ones that the wildcard AFL Oakland Raiders went twice to the Super Bowl.

After delivering a sound 27-10 defeat to the highly-favored Philadelphia Eagles, the Raiders became the first AFL wildcard team ever to win the Super Bowl.

It was arguably their "finest hour" and the one man who deserved the laurels for what they were able to accomplish during those years more than any other was quarterback Jim Plunkett.

I liked Jim Plunkett... He wasn't rich like the egotistical Stanford or Harvard boys -- the ones you usually saw calling the plays... Jim Plunkett was the child of economically-disadvantaged, Canadian Native American parents -- an "outlaw" in reputation and spirit.

It wasn't easy for him... The "powers that were" at that time didn't like his rough-and-tumble, nose-thumbing at authority ways. There wasn't much they could do about it, though, because Jim Plunkett could play the hell out of the game of football... 

Suddenly, I knew what this kitten's name must be! This feisty, runt of the litter -- the only one of the plucky Raider's kittens to share her sleek, shiny, jet black fur and startlingly beautiful emerald-green eyes... 

"Robert, come see!" I called to my husband, "Look how adorable he is!"

My husband ambled over and cupped the tiny kitten in both hands.

"He is really cute," he said, smiling and touching the kitten's nose to his. 

"Meet Plunkett!" I announced proudly.

"Plunkett, huh?" he replied, holding him aloft and smiling.

"Yes," I affirmed, "In honor of his mother, Raider, and my favorite Raider of all-time, Jim Plunkett!"

"That's a fine name... Plunkett... Good name for a kitty-cat... Plunkett J. Kitty-Cat," he chuckled, handing him back to me.

As I write this, Plunkett is sitting in a spot of shade in the front yard... He's seven years old now and no longer a "runt" by any stretch of the imagination. I call him the "great and fearless hunter" who brings his mousey offerings always back to us (feeling, as I believe he does, that my husband and I don't have quite enough sense to catch our own prey. Well, he's never seen us catch anything, anyway...)  

After a considerable absence from the little village where Plunkett was born, my husband and I found ourselves driving down the street there on an errand the other day...

The eatery and bar where Plunkett's mother, Raider, was taken in by the kind waitresses is still there; although, I heard that it was sold to new owners some time ago and is now under new management.

I couldn't believe my eyes when I read the new sign out-front:

"The Black Cat Café"

"Plunkett" (namesake of the great Oakland Raiders quarterback, Jim Plunkett) lounges on his magic carpet in the front yard here in Cloverdale.