I had caught my first glimpse of Midnight during the dark days of winter. He had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. I would see him now and then, moving stealthily between houses or hiding in some tall weeds. His black coat was dull on his gaunt frame, and his tail was odd— short and crooked. One cold morning I stepped outside my front door while balancing cat food bowls in both hands, only to see him sitting at the end of the driveway. I placed a full bowl of food a distance away from me and the other cats. Through amber eyes Midnight watched every move I made, then cautiously made his way to the bowl. He ate hungrily, casting anxious glances my way, then disappeared back into the undergrowth.

It had taken months for the other feral cats to trust me enough to stroke their fur while they ate. Always wary and watchful, they stand ready to flee at the first sudden move. I figured it would be that way with Midnight. Imagine my surprise when, in a matter of days, Midnight had crept up closer and closer to the cat feeding station. Maybe extreme hunger fought with the need to be wary of humans, and hunger had won the battle. At first he would eat after I had gone back inside the house, but by the end of two weeks, he had made some kind of decision about me. Boldly striding past the other cats, he continued right up to me and straight into my heart. There he stood, and with a cranky, hoarse meow, demanded his fair portion of food.

So began Midnight's reign as Lord of the Feral Cats. From the beginning, none of the other feral cats questioned his authority over the colony. One deep growl or swipe of his paw was all it took for them to back off, allowing him to have the first portion of food and the highest perching places from which he could rule his new cat domain. His favorite place to perch was an old tree stump which afforded him a 360-degree view of his world. From there he would issue warning growls to strange cats and errant dogs, occasionally chasing away those that did not pick up on his not-so-subtle hints.

To the colony cats he was like a benevolent gatekeeper, generously allowing them access to food and shelter. Towards me he had the demeanor of a kitten, trying his hardest to utter a high pitched mew— more of an airy rasp— which he would anxiously repeat when he saw me bring out the chow. I was obviously his prized possession, for he would glare at any of the other cats who dared to approach me, keeping them all at bay while he wove himself between my legs.

I have wondered if Midnight may have had a human of his own at one time. If he did, it mustn't have been a warm relationship. For months, he cringed when I touched him and would not tolerate any stroking of his short, crooked tail. I respected his wishes, waiting patiently and biding my time.

Midnight slowly learned to enjoy my behind-the-ears and under-the-chin scratching sessions. While gurgling sweet nothings to him, I would visually inspect his tail. It was really a half-tail containing two sharp bends, and it gave this now stocky, macho feline a comical appearance. At the same time, I was sure something traumatic had been done to his tail. I began lightly brushing my hand against it until he eventually allowed me to touch it freely. I could feel the two broken places between my fingers and wished he could tell me what had happened. He even allowed me to pick him up for a few seconds at a time. He would, however, glare at me, his ears laid flat, as if to say, "Put me down this minute! This is not seemly for the Lord of the Feral Cats!" Still, by the end of a year, he had begun to purr deep in his chest when I stroked his now-silky fur. None of the other feral cats had ever done that.

About a month ago, my cantankerous boy began to hang his head. He stopped eating and stopped patrolling his territory. I was able to cage him without a struggle and anxiously toted him into the vet's office. Testing this time showed he was positive for feline leukemia. The vet could only guess that he had been positive all along and that the virus had been contained in his bone marrow, rendering the original test negative. Now the disease had been unleashed full force.

I was stunned. Forty eight hours previously, Midnight had been my bossy boy cat-with-attitude, and now he was lying at death's door. The trip to the vet's office had been very traumatic for him and I promised him he would not have to return there. By the following day he could barely walk, and I called a veterinarian who performs at-home euthanasia. Midnight was lying under the drooping branches of the old forsythia bush. The vet and I both crawled under there, and while I spoke to him softly and stroked him gently, Midnight peacefully left this world for the Rainbow Bridge. Shedding tears all over his still, dark form, I buried him by his tree stump throne.

None of the other feral cats have ventured to climb Midnight's tree stump. Perhaps they still feel his presence. I know I do, this odd-looking cat that stole my heart. Sometimes I think I hear his hoarse meow and look from one side to the other. If I close my eyes, I can still see him— coal black fur, amber eyes, and that funky kinked half-tail of his. His name was Midnight and he was the Lord of the Feral Cats

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