I can’t remember a time when a cat wasn’t part of my life. My family always had at least one cat. They were all family cats, until I was 10.
He came into my life as a Christmas gift when I was ten — a ginger kitten whose fur matched the color of my own hair. I named him Thunder. I had read the mystery story Meg and the Disappearing Diamonds, a book I’d read and I knew that if I ever had a cat of my own, I would name him Thunder. The name just felt right — bold, mysterious, unforgettable.
He was my Puppy Kitten because he followed me like a puppy, curled up beside, and watched the world with a calm knowing that made him seem wise beyond his years. For fifteen years, he was my shadow, my secret-keeper, and my first great love.
Loving him taught me what it meant to care for another soul — to listen without words, to grieve deeply, and to cherish the quiet companionship that only a cat can offer. He wasn’t just my pet; he was part of me. And though I didn’t know it then, Thunder was the beginning of something much bigger.
For most of my life, I had one or two cats. Just enough to fill a lap or a windowsill. But over time, the numbers grew. One stray showed up. Then another. A litter appeared under the bushes. Slowly, as time passed by, my home began to feel like something more — a sanctuary.
I didn’t put up a sign. There was no plan. But the cats knew.
They came for food or shelter and stayed for something they couldn’t quite name. Now, my yard is home to a clowder of cats — some born here, others drawn by some invisible invitation. Each one with their own rhythm, their own scars, their own beauty. I care for them not out of duty, but out of the same love that began with a ginger kitten named Thunder, given to a ten-year-old girl who still believes in the magic of a good story and the healing power of a purr.
This is the beginning of Cat Tales — stories from the sanctuary my life became, shaped by paws, purrs, and the legacy of the cat who started it all.