Obatalá’s Favorite Dove, or, How the Cat Lost His Dinner

The color black will always fade and the color white will always stain.

Silently, the cat crouched low in the bush, watching the black pigeon as it hopped from branch to branch in a tree. His feline mouth watered, lips trembling slightly as his tail flicked quickly sideways. There was a slight rumble in his belly. “Sooner or later that bird will make a mistake, and when he does, he’s mine,” thought the cat.

Looking down from the tree, the black pigeon saw the tail end of a worm sticking out of the earth. He rustled his feathers excitedly, and dove down quickly. One swift tug of the worm and it was free, twisting and turning in his beak. One swift leap by the cat, and the pigeon was hanging loosely in his teeth, flapping his wings futilely.

The pigeon squealed in pain and fright, and the worm dropped, digging away into the earth. The cat mewed with satisfaction and hunger, and the black pigeon was free, flying to a distant house.

The cat growled angrily. “I’ll get that black pigeon,” he said, and he started to track the bird.

Obatalá was surprised when a black pigeon came hurtling through his window; so swiftly and quickly did it fly that it struck a wall, and bounced back onto the floor. “Poor bird!” Obatalá said, picking it up. “What a dirty bird!” he noticed, seeing the black mark it left on the wall, and the stain in his hands. Gently, Obatalá washed the black pigeon and was amazed when all the darkness washed away, leaving a white dove. The dark color was nothing more than dirt.

Groggily, the dove stirred in his hands. “Don’t be afraid,” soothed Obatalá. “You are safe.”

Obatalá was an orisha, and as such, he understood the languages of all the animals. “The cat!” the bird screamed. “The cat is going to eat me.”

“There is no cat here,” insisted Obatalá.

He heard scratching at his front door. The bird flew to the top of the windowsill. “It’s the cat, I know it,” he whispered fearfully. “Please don’t let him eat me.”

Obatalá opened the door; and as the white dove feared, it was the cat, wanting to eat him.

“You have my dinner here, Obatalá,” he accused.

“I have your dinner? I’m sorry, but I don’t feed cats,” said the orisha.

“I caught a pigeon in the woods, and it got away. I saw it fly into your window.”

Obatalá took a deep, solemn breath; the cat watched his chest rise and fall. “I see,” he said. “What color was your pigeon?”

“It was black. I want it now.”

Obatalá smiled, “Dove, fly to me, please. It’s okay. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

The white dove flew down from its perch and landed on Obatalá’s shoulder. “As you can see, cat, the only bird in this house is a white dove. It is my pet. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have things to do, and I suggest you look elsewhere for your dinner.”

In hunger, the cat left Obatalá’s house, and the white dove lived his life safely.