They say black cats bring bad luck — but no one tells you what happens
They say black cats bring bad luck — but no one tells you what happens
when the world believes it. When I first met him, he was hiding under an old dumpster, trembling, wet, and scared to even lift his head. People had thrown things at him. Some chased him away. He had scars on his face, not just from fights, but from rejection. All because of the color of his fur.
But when I reached out to him, he didn’t hiss. He didn’t run. He just looked up at me with these big, golden eyes that seemed to whisper, “Please… just don’t hurt me.” I didn’t see bad luck. I saw a soul that had been through too much, asking for one tiny chance at love.
I took him home. He didn’t trust me right away. He flinched at sudden movements. He’d hide in corners, like he was bracing for the worst. But slowly — painfully slowly — he began to believe that maybe, just maybe, he was safe. One night, he curled up next to me and rested his head on my chest. That was the moment I knew he had chosen me. Not because I saved him… but because I stayed.
Today, he follows me everywhere. He purrs when I walk in the room, and he sleeps with his paw touching my hand. He’s not bad luck. He’s the luckiest thing that’s ever happened to me. And I thank the universe every day for the chance to rewrite the story the world tried to give him.
