I don’t remember the day I was born, but I remember the way people looked at me. Or rather, how they didn’t. While my siblings—soft gray, warm orange, snow-white—were cuddled and admired, I was the one left behind. I was the black one. The one that no one wanted to hold. The one they whispered about, the one they ignored.
I never understood why. My fur was soft, just like theirs. My purr was just as warm, my heart just as full. But to the world outside my little crate, my color was something to fear, not love. People would stop by and point, smiling at the others. “Look how pretty she is,” they’d say about my white sister. “What a handsome boy,” they’d laugh, ruffling the ears of my orange brother. But when their eyes landed on me, their voices would fall, their smiles would fade. Sometimes they wouldn’t say anything at all. Sometimes they’d just walk away.
I tried to be just as playful, just as sweet. I would curl up beside the bars and press my nose through, hoping someone might stop. I would meow softly, hoping they’d hear me. But most days, I was invisible. My black fur blended into the shadows of the cage, and my tiny heart broke a little more each time I was overlooked.
Over time, I learned not to try so hard. I stopped calling out. I stopped stretching my paw through the bars. I began to believe what the world seemed to be telling me—that because I was black, I was less. Less lovable. Less adoptable. Less wanted.
I overheard the volunteers sometimes. “Black cats are the last to be adopted,” one of them said once, sighing. “It’s silly, but people still think they’re bad luck.” Bad luck? Is that really all I was to them? A superstition? A shadow? Something to avoid?
I wanted to scream, “I’m not bad luck! I’m just a cat who wants to be loved!” But cats don’t scream. We suffer in silence.
Nights were the hardest. When the lights dimmed and the shelter quieted down, I would curl into myself and whisper the same thing over and over: “No one loves me because I’m black.” And each time I said it, it hurt a little more, until I began to believe it completely. I convinced myself that my color was a curse I could never escape. That I would grow old in this cage, invisible forever.
But deep inside, there’s still a flicker of hope. I don’t know why it hasn’t died. Maybe it’s because I’ve seen the way the sun still shines, even on black fur. Maybe it’s because I believe that somewhere out there, someone is waiting—not for a “perfect” cat, but for a soul who needs love. Someone who will look at me and see not fear, not superstition, but softness. Someone who will reach through the bars, pick me up, and say, “I choose you.”
Until that day comes, I will keep waiting. I will keep hoping. And maybe, just maybe, one day someone will look at me—not at my color, not at the old myths—but at my heart. And they’ll see that underneath this black fur is a loyal friend, a gentle soul, a cat who has never given up on love.
Because I may be black, but I am not broken. And I deserve to be loved, too.
