I’m a big believer that if you’re trying to force something to happen, it’s probably not meant to be. So it was when my kids were away and I wanted to surprise them upon their return with a new black kitten. I called rescues and asked around, but some didn’t get back to me, some had difficult hoops for me to jump through and, one, after we settled I’d go meet one specific kitten, adopted it out before I had a chance to get out there to see it.
So it was that I figured getting my black kitten was not meant to be. I’ve always loved black cats, because I tend to have a soft spot for anything that has gotten bad PR. Black cats are supposedly the companions of witches, and the only reason that the superstition developed that they’re bad luck is because people used to be afraid of the power of women who they saw as threats – midwives and herbalists were often accused as witches when things weren’t going well. Black cats kind of got a bad rap by association.
To this day of supposed enlightenment, black cats are still harder to adopt out, and are still subject to violence. I have one that hangs around my back yard and I sometimes leave little treats for it. But I wanted my own.
Alas, it didn’t seem like it was meant to be. Until Saturday! Someone in my town posted about an 8-week-old kitten needing a home. All her siblings had gone, but she remained. I scrolled down to see the picture. She was the most perfect little puff of black fur you’ve ever seen.
I contacted the woman and within the hour, had picked up the perfect little love. She was playful and mischievous and snuggly, and meowed plaintively when we left the room. We all fell in love immediately. It took a day’s worth of deliberations, but we finally all agreed on the name “Boo.”
She’s snuggled to my right as I type, after a busy morning of chewing on my cell phone charger’s wire and swatting at her own reflection in the mirror. She’s got spunk and an indefatigable spirit. She fits right in.
Sometimes, when something is meant to be, it all comes together.