Sleeps, a stretch of black fur. Wakes. Peaks ears. Hunts for dries. Climbs curtains, a black shadow. Imitates a soot-ball, a skyscraper, a vinyl record, a hang-glider. Retires to piano corner. Naps. Receives vet email in black typeface: “Obsidian Norman Harvey, it’s time for your shots.” Wakes in August sunlight. Drops from ledge. Attacks a black-edged dandelion. Finds relief. Imbibes tray water. Curls round ankles. Hovers where doors open. Swallows a wool ball. Vomits wool. Reclines. Jabs salty tongue milk. Taps queenly April, she bops him back. Inspects dark tiles. Treads elegantly flowerbeds. Disappears into night. Watches with both eyes.