Cats have always been considered clairvoyant, capable of seeing ghosts, able to communicate by telepathy, and to predict earthquakes, storms, volcanic eruptions, and other disasters. The most interesting cat tales come from personal experiences of cat lovers and owners. Not all of the following stories are of psychic happenings; one is a delightful fantasy tale of the first order.
I love cats because I enjoy my home; and little by little, they become its visible soul.
—JEAN COCTEAU
Flash
When we lost our cat Samuel Tibbs to fatal urinary tract infections, I made it plain I didn’t want any more cats for a while. “But, Mom,” my daughter Sharon said, “we have to save the kitten at the truck farm. They’ve let the dogs kill all but this one!” So we ended up with a tiny little striped male who was christened Flash, because he ran fast enough to stay alive.
Flash had such a laid-back personality that few people realized, until too late, that he also was a calculated and deliberate prankster. If he was teased, he could wait for days to get his revenge, which usually took the form of attack in dark rooms or dragging socks all over the floor. He would deliberately ambush Buckwheat (the dog) when least expected, by swatting his nose from concealment in the herb bed. He loved to lie on the porch roof and stare down at visitors or children at Halloween until they got nervous.
Flash was also extremely psychic. Just before Mt. St. Helens erupted in May of 1980, he began to be very nervous. He wanted to be close but would bite if anyone touched him. This was unusual behavior for Flash, and took everyone by surprise. He lost weight during the eruption and aftershocks, and was always close to someone. After that, we noticed that he reacted to any eruption or earthquake around the Pacific Ocean. He gave about two weeks’ notice of such events by his behavior.
We learned to watch his behavior, too, in regard to the character of people. Flash would instantly know whether someone was untrustworthy, potentially dangerous, or just a nuisance. Nuisances he dealt with by jumping in their lap at every opportunity and working his claws right through the skin of their legs. Those who were untrustworthy he glared at, then turned and walked away with his nose in the air. With potentially dangerous people he left the house and wouldn’t return until they left.
To him, magick circles, meditations, and trances were old hat, something he had obviously been part of through many lifetimes.
He could be off mouse hunting on the farthest edge of the property when any of these things began. However, it would only be a matter of a few minutes before he appeared and demanded to take part. He never missed a single occasion.
He died of a brain tumor shortly before we moved to another town. Although we took his ashes with us and buried them on the new property, I wondered if Flash would come along in spirit. He didn’t let us down. During the first circle we held, there he was: a shadowy figure near the altar, intently watching every move. “Of course I’m here,” he seemed to say, a smug smile on his face. “Somebody has to keep all the spirits in line.”
Welcome to the Cat Blues Cafe
I was waiting for our management meeting to start when one of the other managers happened to comment on a garnet ring I was wearing. “My cats bought this for me for my birthday,” I told him. Our company president heard my comment and asked, “How did they pay for it?” “Well, with Stanley’s MasterCat card,” I quipped, expecting everyone to laugh. The room became very quiet and I squirmed with embarrassment as I realized they were all waiting for an explanation.
“Stanley is a big black enterprising cat who was bored with the traditional occupation of mousing, fighting with the neighbor cats, and caring for his human. One day, quite out of the blue, he asked me if he could start a couple of catnip patches around our yard. I asked him what he planned to do with so much catnip and he said he had an idea for making money. Later that same day, he asked if he could borrow my car as he walked out the door with the keys in tow. I watched out the window as he adjusted his red beret and put on his black horned-rimmed sunglasses with one lens missing. He backed the car out of the driveway and was gone in a flash. I didn’t worry as Stanley had a perfect driving record and he always replaced the gas he used in his jaunts.
“When he returned, he was very excited. He called his Siamese brothers, Ziggy and Barney, into a meeting under my bed. They were there for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, they emerged and announced they were going into business together. Stanley said if I would plant the catnip, they would tend it and harvest it in the fall. In return for my support, I would be ‘treated very well.’
“All summer long, the three boys would disappear most afternoons and evenings. The catnip grew and spread. That fall we harvested the catnip and Stanley placed it in a huge white basket to dry. All winter long, Stanley wrapped catnip cigarettes and packed them in boxes. I was dying to ask about their plans, but I figured they would tell me when it was time for me to know. Actually, it was fun to speculate about what they might be up to.
“As the winter snow melted, there was heightened energy in our house. I noticed my telephone bills were quite high, but the boys assured me they would take care of all the extra expenses. As spring grew into summer, our cat family seemed perfectly happy and normal, for the most part.
“One very sultry August night, I just couldn’t fall asleep. I don’t know if it was the heat or the Full Moon. I got out of bed and went outside for some air. The yard was lit by the moon and I could see all around me that shadow side of life. Leaning up against a utility pole in our back yard, gazing at the moon, I contemplated the wonder of it all in an almost dreamlike state of mind. Suddenly, I was startled by movement in the high grass behind our row of pine trees. My heart was pounding as I took shelter in the neighbor’s trees behind me. A beautiful white Persian cat, dressed in a scarlet beaded gown, emerged from under our pines. She was escorted by a fine looking Siamese dressed in a brown suit, fedora, and spats. My Barney! They strolled down the corridor between the pines and our wildflower garden, disappearing into the night.
“I held my breath as I watched cat after cat arrive and leave the pine grove. All dressed in finery, all walking on their hind legs and talking as you and I would talk on a night on the town. Finally, around 1 a.m., I could stand there no longer. I walked up to what seemed to be the entrance and peered under the bows. I saw only darkness, but I could hear music and laughter! Glasses were clinking and the air was smokey. Had my imagination finally run away with me? Was this really happening? Was it a dream? A rustling in the grass near me caused me to leap in the air and run as fast as I could back into the house and into my bed.
“The next morning, as I fed Stanley, Ziggy, and Barney, all seemed normal. Finally, I could wait no more and said, ‘I think I know what you boys have been up to and I want a complete explanation.’ Stanley sauntered over to a throw rug and washed his face. He then told me of his new business, the Cat Blues Cafe. The boys had hired union groundhogs to dig a huge underground facility, with its opening under the pine trees. Cool cats from miles around could come and enjoy the finest blues, every Friday and Saturday night.
“The years passed; so did Ziggy and Barney. Stanley was alone trying to run the Cat Blues Cafe from the first warm weekend in April until the last warm weekend in October. One May, two lovely Oriental Shorthairs, Morgan Le Fay, a lynx colorpoint, and Nimue, a silver-ticked tabby, came to live with us. Long and lean, with deep Siamese-like voices, it didn’t take Stanley long to recognize talent. He offered them jobs as waitresses and ‘entertainers’ at the Cat Blues Cafe. He dressed them in sequined gowns, broad-brimmed hats with long, soft feathers, and fine white elbow-length gloves. Morgan’s dress was periwinkle blue, to match her eyes. Nimue’s gown was deep emerald green, which brought out both the green of her eyes and also the silver shimmer of her fur. Breathtaking beauties!
“Stanley told me of Morgan’s talent to get up before the crowd, with a flute of cream in one paw and a long cigarette holder smoldering with catnip smoke in the other, and belt out the blues for hours at a time. Nimue’s talent was in teasing the young male cats with her feathers and cajoling them into spending their money on food, drink, and gambling. Stanley had his special chair in the back of the room, where he could keep an eye (the one golden orb not hidden by the lens of his sunglasses) on things. His red beret cocked to the side, a catnip cigarette hanging from his lips, and his hind feet up on the chair in front of him, he watched the fruit of his labors and the enjoyment he brought to so many cats.
“Last season Stanley retired for health reasons and handed over the business to Morgan and Nimue, who have spent the winter sewing new gowns, ordering new hats, arranging gigs for various bands, and making plans for some improvements, including expansion to include a large carpeted floor. I asked if this was to be a dance floor and got some very curious looks from the two of them. ‘Cats don’t dance, you silly thing,’ they replied in unison. They told me the carpet would be covered in loose catnip and it would be used for, well, rolling. Of course, without the rock. I should have known.”
I looked around the room and all of the managers’ eyes were glassy, as if in a daze. I looked at the clock and realized I had monopolized much of our meeting time. The president cleared his throat and I thought, I am in some serious trouble. “Now, when are you going to write the story?” he asked with a sly smile. Someday.
Rezel
I lived with my cat, Rezel, in a second-floor apartment, which was located in a rambling, brick Victorian structure. Rezel was strictly an indoor cat and not very adventuresome, but one evening when I returned home from work, she insisted upon going outside. I followed her as she trundled down the staircase. She hurried over to the door that led to the building’s basement, stood up on her hind feet, and frantically tapped the doorknob with her right front paw.
I had always spoken to Rezel in human talk, as most cat owners do, so I asked her, “Rezel, is there something down in the basement?” Rezel meowed, tapped the doorknob again, and looked back at me pleadingly.
I immediately envisioned a cat trapped in the basement and asked, “Is there a kitty in the basement?” Upon hearing the word “kitty” Rezel proceeded to meow eloquently, lashing her tail to and fro.
I opened the door, admittedly feeling a little foolish for listening to my cat. Rezel retreated quietly under the staircase and watched the door. I called out, “Here, kitty, come out, kitty,” and stood back next to Rezel. I didn’t expect anything to materialize but I was wrong.
Within a few minutes, a large male Siamese cat emerged through the doorway. He went over to Rezel, touched her nose with his, then looked up at me, flipped his tail, and stalked off toward his home. He obviously was giving credit to whom it was due for his rescue.
There are two aspects of this event that I find inexplicable. First, that Rezel was able to effectively communicate the existence of a problem and its solution. Second was her knowledge that the problem existed. From her observation area in the apartment, there was no way she could have seen whether the basement door was open or closed, nor could she have heard a cat meowing in the brick basement. I can only conclude that the trapped cat sent psychic distress signals and Rezel, who had always shown sensitivity toward suffering creatures, picked them up. She, in turn, had to communicate psychically with me so the problem could be solved. Rezel never showed an inclination to visit the basement again and was disinterested in going outside afterward as well.
Cats Who Love Magick
My two current feline companions, Nimue (black, longhaired female) and Gwydion (black, shorthaired male), insist on being present when I do spellwork and complain loudly if I attempt to exclude them. If I close a door between us, they will yowl, scratch at the door, and even hurl themselves against it. They seem to know when magick is afoot, for they don’t act this way at other times. However, on the rare times when I’ve worked with other practitioners, neither cat has chosen to participate. I often work using as an altar a round, clear glass coffee table, with the legs aligned to the four directions. The cats station themselves under the table, where they almost always remain, quietly attentive, from the moment I cast the circle to the time I open it. They also seem able to move in and out of the circle, as they occasionally do, to no ill effect.17
It is very evident that both Gwydion and Nimue can sense magical energy, are strongly attracted to it, and like bonding with me on this plane. I believe there may also be a desire on their part to guard the circle and contribute their energy to the work at hand. Although I’m aware of their energy, it feels comfortable and never distracting.
I’ve lived with many other cats over the years, none of whom showed much interest in magick.
Fascino
My present cat Osiris is and isn’t my second cat. I believe he is the reincarnation of the Fascino I knew in my early twenties. I named the first kitten, who was half Persian, half Siamese, Fascino because he was fascinated with everything. During the eighteen years he lived with me, he never clawed drapes or furniture, used his claws during play, or cared for the usual cat toys or catnip. We were very close, and he was definitely “my” cat. He died of renal failure four years ago.
As I was coming home from work late one night a year and a half ago, I nearly ran over a small gray kitten in the road. I knew it was probably from a litter produced by a wild barn cat but went back to it anyway. As soon as I called, the kitten came running to me, an unusual reaction for a feral cat. I took him home and cleaned him up. Because he has the double-triangle of Isis and Osiris running from the upper point between his ears to the lower point at the center of his throat, I named him Osiris. As I understand it, this symbol has to do with life and death and rebirth, which made an extraordinary amount of sense when I began to see uncanny similarities with Fascino.
Osiris has the same huge green-brown eyes with blue centers that Fascino had. Like Fascino, he has never used his claws, stays on chairs rather than tables or countertops, and prefers to play with paper bags and knotted pantyhose. He doesn’t like catnip and has been “my” cat from the first day. There is no doubt that Osiris is the same cat as Fascino, right down to the sound of his voice, his mannerisms, and the way he relates to everything around him. He also answers to Fascino as well as to Osiris. I have no doubts that Fascino is back.
Sabbath
For seventeen years my life included a longhaired black fur ball officially known as Sabbath (informally dubbed with a variety of monikers). My mother called him FatCat. My French grandmother dubbed him “Sabbath,” with the accent on the second syllable. What my boyfriend called him was unprintable; to me he was my Dabby Doo.
Last June the formidable FatCat refused to eat—an unprecedented phenomenon. He was weak and couldn’t be coaxed from his favorite spot, my pillow. I had gotten used to sleeping with a cat on my head and fur up my nose on a regular basis. Sabbath was uncharacteristically listless, so I rushed him to the only emergency veterinarian I could find.
For the next three days, I drove forty miles on my lunch hour to visit him until the results of the test were in. The diagnosis was liver failure, and I had to make the most heart-rending decision of my life. That evening I held him in my arms while the vet administered the shot that would end his suffering and his life. Both the vet and I were crying at the end. I took the next day off work and agonized over whether I had done the right thing for the right reasons. I cried myself to sleep every night for over a week until something unexpected happened.
I went to bed as usual, turning off the light and rolling onto my side to go to sleep, when I heard this monstrously loud purring all around my head. I assumed it was my other feline friend, but then I heard the dry food in the cat bowl being crunched. Just as I realized it couldn’t possibly be her, I recognized Sabbath’s purr. I rolled onto my back, and the purring got even louder. I lay there listening, with tears running down my cheeks. It continued for five minutes or more. When the purring finally stopped, I knew my Dabby Doo, my Sabbath, had come to let me know it was all right, that he didn’t want me to worry anymore, and that he was happy.
It used to drive me crazy when he slept on my head, but I’d give just about anything right now to have to share my pillow and pass the night with fur up my nose.
The Surprise Cat
One night, while I was sleeping, I had a dream about a big gray cat who came up to my sliding glass door, and me letting him in. I woke up and didn’t think too much about it. A couple of weeks later I was sitting on my couch and a cat came up to my sliding glass door, looking very surprised. It was the same cat in my dream. When I let him in, he acted like he had been in the apartment before. He stayed for a couple of days, then left. I haven’t seen him since.
Mouse
My cat Mouse and I are spiritually very close, are constantly near one another, and share a unique rapport that has made me consider him my Familiar. He is a truly magickal creature who seems to have something about him that is otherworldly. He is basically an outdoor cat and invariably asks to be let out at some late hour, like 1 a.m. Although I’m usually up late, on the evening in question I wanted to get to sleep an hour earlier and didn’t feel comfortable about letting him stay out all night, especially since the weather was apt to become cold.
I stood on the porch calling Mouse for ten minutes with no success. Mouse usually responds to my calls almost immediately. I spent another ten minutes inside, looking out the window, growing more worried and annoyed by the minute. Finally, I went to my bedroom. I pictured him in my mind and sent a message along a beam of light that should seek him out and deliver my words: “Mouse! I want to go to sleep. Come home NOW!” I sent a sense of urgency along just in case plain words failed to transmit mentally.
Within a couple of minutes I got a reply. It came in the form of Mouse’s familiar voice in my head. There was no mistaking it. The clarity and volume of the mrrrow was such that he could have been sitting on my shoulder making the sound in one ear. I went back to the window and within a couple of minutes Mouse came swaggering up to the door to be let in.
There have been other occasions when this psychic communication has taken place and feelings, like messages themselves, have been exchanged between us. I have noticed that, when calling Mouse mentally to return home, he responds more quickly to “I miss you, come home” than to a firm “Get your fuzzy behind home NOW!”
A Circle of Cats
When I first moved onto the eleven oak-studded, hilly acres on the outskirts of a small town in the central coast region of California, there was only one cat, Smokey, who has since returned to Bast. Although I wasn’t his human, he kept company with me through my solitary Esbat and Sabbat circles, standing to the right of the censer, gazing into the smoke with slitted yellow-green eyes. His passing left a hole in my heart and rituals.
Because I missed his friendship so much, I began to look for another companion to join me in circle. Since I felt another smokey-gray cat could be too painful, I asked my “helpers” to send a Siamese, a breed I have always been drawn to. Once I realized I was asking for what I wanted, rather than what I needed, I changed my wish to “Send the helper/s most perfect for my work and path.” Soon afterward, Boots arrived, very pregnant, with her two sisters, Squirrel and Targette, and her mate Target. Squirrel and Targette joined my circle that night, one to the north, the other to the west.
When the kittens were born, Max, a rather masculine gray tabby female, joined the Circle soon after her eyes opened. She’d drag her wobbling infant body into the sacred area under the old oak and sit slightly to the south of her Aunt Targette. Afterward, Boots, who waited impatiently outside the circle, would pick her up by the neck and carry her back to the nest. So I had my companions, but somehow the space Smokey left was still echoingly empty. Something was still missing.
Last spring, while sitting on the front porch with my neighbor (Smokey’s “official” human), we saw a small red kitten being tended by Black Tuesday, another of our adopted feline friends. Eventually, seven other kittens joined the first, along with the cat we assumed was their mother, until we discovered he was male. One by one, the kittens have joined the circle, as have Tuesday and Mr. Mom.
I sit under the old oak tree surrounded by thirteen cats: calico Squirrel to the north; then Siamese Cara, Spook, and Pookah to the east; gray and white Hooligan, gray tabby Cricket, and Black Tuesday curve around to the south. Snip (Tuesday’s look-alike), brown and white Mr. Mom, and Max and Targette in identical gray stripes make up the arc to the west, and Booter with her black and white splashed coat sits halfway between west and north.
Now, if you’ve been keeping track, you know that only makes twelve cats. This is because, just to my right, beside the censer, sits Red. His tail is curled around his toes, and his yellow-green eyes are slitted as he watches the scented smoke rise.
Has Bast sent Smokey back to me in the shape of Red? Possibly, or maybe Red simply follows the directions of a gray shadow that sometimes appears near the altar. Either way, both are welcome.
The Cat Who Came to Dinner
I live in a pet-free zone. However, one winter my sister brought home an alley kitten that she had found wandering on the street. He was a cute little orange and white striped scrap of fur, so she named him Scrap. Scrap lived with us for about a week before she found him a home with friends.
One night we had ham for dinner. Scrap was so excited about the food that he leapt up on the dining room table and ran off with my dad’s slice of ham. He was halfway down the stairs before anyone could react. Scrap ate the whole slice, which was about the same size he was. Scrap wasn’t used to food being readily available and just wanted to get that ham while the getting was good. I’m sure he enjoyed it, though he did growl to ward off any predators while he was eating. We weren’t planning to eat the piece of ham after he had dragged it through the house, but poor little Scrap didn’t know that.
The Cat and the Ghost
When I was growing up, we lived in a house complete with a ghost. Only a few family members ever saw the ghost, but it never caused us any real problems. However, our white cat was always aware of the ghost each time it roamed the house and decided to make friends. After all, to a cat one world of existence is much the same as another. The cat loved to play with the ghost by running up and down the hall in a game of chase at night. To my parents and us kids the cat-ghost play was normal, but not so to visitors. Once Grandma came for a visit and Grandma didn’t believe in ghosts, or so she said. One night during the visit, she got up to see what the cat was doing, running through the hall, and encountered both cat and ghost. She refused to sleep in that house again.
Stephanie
My cat Stephanie is a fawn-point Siamese. We always had a psychic connection. I never had to call her at feeding time; she always seemed to be waiting when I placed her bowl outside. One night I had a dream about a large rat. I usually never remember a dream of this kind. When I woke up, I saw Stephanie standing in the living room. She stays outside, so I thought she had gotten inside somehow. Then her form faded away before my eyes. I went to the back door to check on her, and there she sat, proudly offering me a large rat she had caught that night. I suppose she couldn’t wait to tell me of her proud catch.
Wiz and the Fairy
I have a male cat named Wizard, whom I call Wiz for short. He is a feisty Abyssinian-Siamese mixture and sleeps beside me at night. During June 1996, toward sunrise, I felt him pawing my ear and purring, making an earnest attempt to wake me. I touched his nose with my thumb and he trilled. Immediately Wiz jumped onto the window ledge and all the time his eyes were on mine. I woke up. Parting the curtain, I followed his inquisitive stare. Together, we watched a lovely summer fairy pass by outside, return once, then go gently on her way. She was a true summer fairy, and all that I recall of her now is that remarkable smile she shared with Wiz and me, a combined look of pleasure, gratitude, and trust. To live in green country, such as Oklahoma offers, is oftentimes an open invitation to the spiritual encounter of other worlds and dimensions. For those not afraid, it is a wonderful experience. Thank goodness for cats and fairy folks and their magick!
Fatal Eclipses
My cat, Pretty Black Girl, died in the month of May. Pretty (her nickname) was sick in the morning and in my heart I knew the end was near for her. I hadn’t noticed any symptoms and she had all her shots. She was only four years old and was solid and strong. In my search for answers to the pain her death brought, I noticed that the day she died was also the day of a solar eclipse. Six months later, two November eclipses took two more of my cats, two on the same day—one at 2 a.m. and one at 11 p.m. Ann Marie was six years old, and her son Wiggins was only six months old. Neither of them had symptoms of any illness either.
In each eclipse event, the north node opposed Taurus in my eighth house. All the cats who died were born with sun in Taurus. Not only was I their surrogate mother, but their midwife for passage to the great beyond. Fortunately, this planetary transit’s path has traveled through the range of influence in my chart.
Jeremy
I adopted Jeremy in February 1977 when he was eight to ten weeks old. In the late spring of 1980, my husband (then my fiance) and I moved in with his dad, who had severe cardiac disease. My father-in-law was allergic to cats, so Jeremy stayed at my parents’ house, a thirty minute drive away. I worked the 3:00 to 11:00 shift and went to my parents’ house several times a week. Often the trip was unplanned and I would not telephone before driving over. My mother would know I was on my way for about ten minutes before I arrived. Jeremy would become excited and run from window to window. Sure enough, ten minutes later I would arrive.
Misha
Cats are gracious, tender, mischievous angels. I grew up with several cats and dogs during my childhood, but one cat stands out in my mind and heart. Samuel Tibbs Finnegan Cat V. “Sam” was one of many in a long line of Samuels, but he was decidedly different from all the rest. Sam was a black and white neutered male that had the temperament of an angel. He was my special friend. We lived out in the country and I had few friends. You would often find him stretched out—he reached from side to side on my bed. He would always be there to greet me on my long walk home from the bus stop. But his life was cut short with urinary tract blockage, a frequent malady in neutered male cats. I was devastated.
It wasn’t until I was an adult and engaged to be married that Sam found me again. I didn’t go looking for a cat but found him at a friend’s house. He was digging for his breakfast in their garbage can. I pulled him out and looked into his eyes. There was just something special that sparkled there. He rode on my shoulder all the way home in the car and immediately settled in. He insisted on sleeping at the end of my bed that night, and so he took his spot in my life once again.
Being a friendly cat, visitors to our home never fazed him. He, believing people were entering his domain, treated them accordingly—a sniff, maybe a rub on the legs to let them know he liked them, or an indifferent nose in the air and walking away if he didn’t care (a true snubbing). Except one time—an obnoxious insurance salesman (who wouldn’t take “No!” from me) went through my husband and came for an appointment at the house. I was furious but said nothing to this man when he came in. Misha (Sam) did his usual sniffing, checking-out routine. He even went so far as to invitingly rub against the man’s leg. The salesman reached down to pet him and promptly got bit on the hand while Misha galloped away. I had to cover my mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Now how did he know that’s exactly what I wanted to do?
Misha also loved to investigate visitors’ cars, especially the inside if he could find an open window. During a remodeling project, Misha crawled into one of the carpenters’ trucks and was accidentally taken about ten miles away before he escaped. I searched for over two weeks, checking with the local animal shelters, putting up “Missing” posters, but no sign of him. I kept being drawn to a particular neighborhood (in a direct line with our house) but never found him. My husband was certain he was dead, but I knew he wasn’t. I kept seeing a picture of him in my mind calling to me. Finally, two weeks later, I got a call from someone who had found a black and white cat. When I drove to the house it was the exact place I had been drawn to earlier!
Misha, being half Siamese, is a very talkative, expressive cat. I was quickly “trained” that if I was to be gone for more than a day, I was to inform him ahead of time. My punishment, if I didn’t, was often a not-so-gentle tackle and nip on the ankle upon my return. He never did this to anyone else. When I explained to him where I was going and when I would be back, he seemed content and no punishments were issued.
We’ve always been in tune with each other’s wants and needs. Every time I’ve been sick and in bed, Misha is promptly there for me. He even goes so far as to curl up next to, or on top of, whatever body part hurts. During a particularly devastating period of my life, when I was going through a divorce, I lay in bed one night when the awful finality of it hit me. Misha was curled up at the end of the bed. I began sobbing uncontrollably. Misha lifted his head and meowed, walked up, and curled up on my chest, loudly purring while I continued my cathartic weeping. This lasted for ten to fifteen minutes until my sobbing subsided. Then Misha got up and went back to his spot at the foot of my bed.
Some people say that cats are cold, aloof creatures, but I know better!
17. Author’s note: It is a fact that most cats can move into and out of a magick circle without disturbing the flow of energy. They are also some of the very best healers and co-magicians I have ever known.