猿滑
黒猫と主
無言の縁
Crape myrtle —
a black cat and her master,
tied by silent fate.
⸻
I suppose I should thank whoever sent Senbei — maybe Daisan, maybe the foxes in the hills. Or maybe she chose me herself.
She — or he, I never truly knew — first appeared in mid-April, when the sarusuberi behind the Kura was still bare from my over-eager pruning. I was sitting out there alone, eating a rice cracker, when I felt eyes on me.
Under the branches: a black shadow, tail tucked, studying every bite.
I broke off a piece, tossed it into the gravel. She darted, snatched it, retreated, and ate — eyes locked on mine the whole time.
We did this for days. Coffee at dawn, beer at dusk, always with a fresh senbei to spare. Slowly we stopped flinching. She never purred, never spoke — only the brush of fur against my shin at sunset told me she trusted me. Or tolerated me.
I learned her favorite: ika senbei. One barbecue night she clawed a skewer right from my hand — I still have the scar. After that, she got her own dish. An equal share before my first bite. A lesson in humility, courtesy of a stray cat.
In those first lonely months in Takahama, Senbei was my secret companion — the bridge that made me knock on Michika’s door and ask her to feed the guest I’d grown to love more than my own company.
Six weeks away, and when I came back, Michika told me, soft-eyed, “She doesn’t come anymore.” I felt the absence like a missing heartbeat. But by then, Michika and the other Okami-sans had me — or maybe I had them.
I still pour Senbei’s share first, just in case she’s watching from under the sarusuberi. Some shadows are faithful that way.
⸻
Senbei’s Note
I came for your fish
I stayed for your porch
I left when you learned to share it.
I still lick your skewers at midnight.
— Senbei
English 
日本語