Blackfur, son of The Cat and younger brother and litter-mate to Whitefur and Greyfur, was always a little different from his siblings. The humans suspected his father was Longtail, one of the younger up-and-coming feral males of the neighbourhood, while Whitefur and Greyfur probably had Mr Tiffin as their dad.

The months passed and the siblings grew up, exploring the surrounding fields. There were other feral cats living there, and doubtless myriads of exciting adventures to be had. The humans wondered whether Blackfur would follow Longtail out and about into the fields, shadowing him, learning as he went, the small tuxedo acolyte following his jet black father. And maybe he did, because from quite a young age Blackfur was worldly wise and had a certain confidence about him.

A foster kitten called Tiger became Blackfur’s partner-in-crime and they would both appear from the terraced, uphill fields opposite at feeding time, coming to The Cat’s garden to fill their bellies before disappearing off again, refuelled and ready for their next adventure.

One of the dangers of spending their time in the fields opposite was the road which lay between The Cat’s garden and the fields. Only the size of a lane, it was deceptively busy and had claimed the lives of several felines over the years. One day Blackfur and Tiger were spotted heading down through the fields for their evening repast. Blackfur espied the humans opposite and broke into a joyful trot, his rumbling belly no doubt spurring him on. He came to the wall at the edge of the field, looking all the while straight ahead, and jumped enthusiastically down from the high wall on the edge of the road…just as a car was passing. There was a horrible, dull, heavy thud as he made contact with the side of the car which, probably unaware of what had happened, carried on down the road. The car behind luckily stopped and Blackfur was seen running over the road and down into the fields as fast as his legs would carry him, disappearing into the distance.

At least he was still able to run.

The humans traipsed through the fields calling him, shouted from the terrace, scanned the fields for any signs, searched little farmers’ huts and undergrowth, but there was no sign of Blackfur. It was dusk and within the hour it was dark and nothing further could be done to encourage him back home.

The hours passed, the following day passed, and still there was no sign of the injured boy. Feeding times came and went, the usual sounds and calls went up. Tiger paced the drive, wondering where his chum was. The humans wondered whether the extent of Blackfur’s injuries had made it impossible for him to return.

Then, two sunrises later, Blackfur was back. He must have returned during the night and was lying asleep in the garden. Breakfast feeding revealed that he had been exceptionally lucky in many respects with no apparent broken bones, his pelvis, jaw and limbs appearing intact. However the whole of his side, flank and hip had been skinned, right down to freshly exposed muscle and sinew. The only explanation was the split-second reaction which had turned Blackfur around, stopping him from being beneath the car as the back wheels passed, instead crushing him into (and dragging him along) the dry limestone wall of the road. He looked a mess, but the mess would heal, albeit leaving him permanently scarred.

To this day, Tiger continues to live in the fields opposite. Blackfur has not rejoined him.