The Black Cat by Edgar Allan Poe - 9

  I knew one reason why I hated this cat so much. on the morning after I had brought it home, I saw that, like Pluto, it had lost one of its eyes. My wife, who was the kind, gentle person that I had once been, only loved the cat more because of this. But the cat didn't like my wife. It loved me alone.

  Every time I sat down, it used to jump onto my knees. When I went out of a room, it used to run our in front of me and get between my feet, or climb up my legs. At these times, I wanted to kill it. But I didn't, because I was too afraid - afraid of the cat, and ever more afraid of the white mark on its chest.

 

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