August 1, 2026
The story behind Black Cat
A few winters ago I found a kitten under the hedge outside my building — soaked through, and thin enough that I could count her ribs through her fur. She didn't run when I reached for her, which is how I knew it was bad. Healthy strays run.
The next few weeks were not a sure thing. A vet, a heating pad, feedings every few hours, and a lot of sitting very still so she'd learn that a hand reaching toward her wasn't something to fear. I won't pretend I knew it would work out. I just kept showing up, the way you do.
She's the reason I named her Nitka — "little thread" in Czech — the day she was finally strong enough to climb into my workbasket and calmly unravel half a spool of DMC while I pretended to be annoyed about it.
"Black Cat" is my thank-you to her, stitched instead of spoken: a black cat with golden eyes, settled into a cottage garden of poppies, lavender, daisies, and roses, with a blue bird keeping her company. I wanted her to have a garden and someone watching over her, since for a while nobody was watching over her at all.
These days Nitka is unbothered by almost everything, and has an uncanny talent for lying down on exactly the section of fabric I need next. She has no idea any of this is about her, which is probably for the best.
If you've got a rescue of your own — cat, dog, or something stranger — I'd love to hear the story. Leave a reaction below, or just reply if this reached you by email.