You stroll down your neighborhood street. You see a black cat sitting in a windowsill. You might see one running across the street, little yellow eyes staring back at you, a tail flicks. And in that moment, you smile, like you were chosen. A feeling of specialness washes over you. That adorable little cat, in its world of mice and grass and naps and sun, took notice of you. It stopped, and stared at you.
Media would have us believe we should be scared, nervous about our luck. You were told, as a child or in passing, that a black cat crossing your path was bad luck. Maybe it was four years, seven years, or just a series of bad events. But somehow, some way, that little piece of knowledge was passed through you, despite that feeling never coming to you naturally. That's because it's not true. It was a myth. A myth built around containment, control, vilifying independence, vilifying the comings and goings, vilifying a representation of true freedom.
Cats are loving and loyal, and protective. But they are not trained. You're not their owner. The cat chooses. It comes and goes as it pleases. It is not contained.
And in many ways, that essence showed up in gods and goddesses across the world. It started with Bastet, an Egyptian goddess with a cat's head, daughter of Ra, a protector, a guardian. But not a guardian that can be controlled, not a guardian that can be housed. A guardian that comes and goes, and very feminine energy.
We see this again with Freyja, a goddess in Norse mythology, of love, beauty, fertility, war, and magic for seeing and influencing the future. She rode a glittering chariot pulled not by horses but by two cats. Protector of households, protector of women, of mothers, of givers of life. But fickle. You had to appease her, not command her. The story goes that Viking farmers left out bowls of milk, hoping to earn her favor for a good harvest and a protected home. You couldn't just demand her loyalty. She demanded relationship. She demanded trust. Security. You had to show up, as much as she did.
And then, again, in Celtic mythology, protectors of weather, protectors of the home, tied to the goddess Cailleach herself. But fickle, just like any relationship, the effort put in determines what you receive. On Samhain, a saucer of milk left out earned the Cat Sìth's blessing on the household. Forget the offering, and the curse came instead. The cows ran dry, the luck turned. Not cruelty. Just consequence. Like any relationship, the effort put in is the relationship.
And so, as with so many things under patriarchy, the demand for relationship, the demand that a feminine entity could hold power, choice, control, and require the effort of a relationship rather than obedience, was condemned. The independence became threat. The fickleness became evil. And so the cat became a symbol of evil, associated with evil women, the witch. The witch who condemns and curses, who will bring nothing but heartache, lack of prosperity, dead harvest.
By the thirteenth century, the church had already started writing it into doctrine. In 1233, Pope Gregory the Ninth issued an official document, Vox in Rama, linking black cats to the occult. Not folk rumor. Not a story passed between frightened villagers. A written decree from the seat of power itself.
Centuries later, the witch trials gave it teeth. Cats became familiars, spiritual companions believed to carry out a witch's will. The earliest surviving trial pamphlet, published in 1566, told the story of a woman named Elizabeth Francis and her familiar, a cat she'd named Satan. Black cats, specifically, were said to be witches themselves in disguise, or demons wearing fur as a costume.
This was never really about cats. It was about controlling women who claimed power, choice, independence, relationship instead of obedience. The devil didn't need to be real. Fear only needed a shape, and a small black creature with yellow eyes and a mind of its own was shape enough.
The black cat didn't change. The story about her did.
So the next time you walk down your street and a black cat sits in the windowsill, yellow eyes catching yours, tail flicking once before she looks away again, remember what you're actually looking at. Not bad luck. Not a curse waiting to happen. A guardian who cannot be owned. A goddess's oldest companion. A creature who chooses you, briefly, on her own terms, and asks nothing of you but honesty.
She isn't asking you to command her. She's asking you to show up. The way Freyja's farmers left their saucer of milk. The way any real relationship asks to be tended rather than demanded.
Smile back. You were chosen. That was never something to fear.
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