FOR the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeed would I be to expect it, in a case where my very senses reject their own evidence. Yet, mad am I not--and very surely do I not dream.

But to-morrow I die, and to-day
I would unburthen my soul. My immediate purpose is to place before
the world, plainly, succinctly, and without comment, a series of
mere household events. In their consequences, these events have
terrified--have tortured--have destroyed me. Yet I will not attempt to
expound them. To me, they have presented little but Horror--to many
they will seem less terrible than _barroques_. Hereafter, perhaps,
some intellect may be found which will reduce my phantasm to
common-place--some intellect more calm, more logical, and far less
excitable than my own, which will perceive, in circumstances I
detail with awe, nothing more than an ordinary succession of very
natural causes and effects.

From my infancy I was noted for the docility and humanity of my
disposition. My tenderness of heart was even so conspicuous as to make
me jest of my companions. I was especially fond of animals, and was
indulged by my parents with a great variety of pets. With these I spent
most of my time, and never was so happy as when feeding and caressing
them. This peculiarity of character grew with my growth, and in my
manhood, I derived from it one of my principal sources of pleasure. To
those who have cherished an affection for a faithful and sagacious
dog, I need hardly be at trouble of explaining the nature or the
intensity of the gratification thus derivable. There is something in
unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly
to the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry
friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere _Man_.

I married early, and was happy to find in my wife a disposition not
uncongenial with my own. Observing my partiality for domestic pets, she
lost no opportunity of procuring those of most agreeable kind. We
had birds, gold-fish, a fine dog, rabbits, a small monkey, and _a cat_.

This latter was a remarkably large and beautiful animal, entirely black,
and sagacious to an astonishing degree. In speaking of his intelligence,
my wife, who at heart was not a little tinctured with superstition,
made frequent allusion to the ancient popular notion, which regarded all
black cats as witches in disguise. Not that she was ever _serious_ upon
this point--and I mention matter at all for no better reason than
that it happens, just now, to be remembered.

Pluto--this was the cat's name--was my favorite pet and playmate. I
alone fed him, and he attended me wherever I went about house. It
was even with difficulty that I could prevent him from following me
through