I Love My Black Cat

I love my black cat. She’s a thorough devil,
her tail the tip of a witch’s hat.
  She whips up the scullery steps
and churns my nerves to butter.
She maddens the wrens with her
  chatter, shreds terrible herbs;
mutters her spells on the sill,
and magics a rat for her supper.
  Her fur is the color of bones
charred by infernal flames.
Her ears are alive with the night
  and her eyes are sorcery’s shade.
I’d swear she’s a necromancer.
One night, I felt her slip
  from the crook of my knees
and steal my grandmother’s soul.
Some say I should put her away.
  What ill can come from the sprite?
Me, as gentle and good as the grain
and as fine as gossamer’s light.
  If she were a demon, disaster would strike.
If she were a harbinger, where is my harm?
She’ll stay by sun and by candle’s beam
  and a fine portrait she’ll make.
I love my black cat. It’s as simple as that.

Reference:
After A Girl Holding a Cat by Philippe Mercier (1689–1760), c.1750.