I Accidentally Painted My House to Match My Cat

On familiars, intuition, and staking a claim on your world

I grew up watching Elizabeth Montgomery twitch her bewitching nose in black and white reruns. I wanted to name my future daughter Tabitha, and I was convinced I held a hidden otherworldly talent that would someday be revealed.

My twenties introduced Sabrina the Teenage Witch starring Melissa Joan Hart. One of my favorite characters on the quirky sitcom was her snarky cat, Salem. He was her familiar. Her protector. Behind his blasé attitude lay a loyalty that transcended the human–animal bond.

While I never developed magic abilities, I now, at 50, have my own familiar. She is a slender cat with a smooth, grey coat as soft as rabbit fur. Her rich, gold eyes, round saucers save for one dark amber imperfection, convey a level of empathy foreign to most felines.

More than just a Willie Nelson song

Lefty and her sister, Pancha, arrived on our farm four years ago. We were looking for mousers to help protect our small house from the rodents who invaded each spring. Unable to locate older, more experienced huntresses, we agreed to let our neighbor bring two 9-week-old kittens home from her sister’s barn cat population.

When the neighbor drove up with our two new residents, I placed their carrier on a work bench in our small tool shed. As an experienced rescue volunteer, I’d taken great care to create a border around the confined space where they could acclimate for a few days.

Cautiously, I opened the carrier door. I wanted to allow the young cats to come out on their own accord. My husband and the neighbors were eager to greet our new arrivals. The longer the kittens crouched in the back of the crate, however, the more impatient everyone became.

Finally, I extracted the kittens, a mistake that only 20/20 hindsight could have prevented.

I knew better than to let our new arrivals loose. I’d counseled adoptive pet parents on acclimation a hundred times. A nervous, trapped animal is going to do its best to escape, no matter the circumstances.

These girls were no different.

In a flash, they scaled the metal fencing I’d stapled around the workbench, dropping to the ground below. The tortoiseshell kitten disappeared behind a fortress of buckets. I watched in horror as a small grey bundle of fur dashed out of the shed and across the yard.

Our Mallard camper rested about a hundred feet away. My husband and I traipsed through the high spring grass that cloaked her escape, presuming she had taken shelter there. We searched behind tires. I even laid down on the dirt to wiggle underneath and see if she was hiding somewhere in the chassis. Nothing.

To say I was devastated would be an understatement. The flood of tears that ensued wasn’t just for the missing kitten. An unbearable shame overtook me. I had ignored my intuition, and nothing good had ever come from that.

My husband jumped on the golf cart to begin his search. Meanwhile, I went back to the shed to find our fugitive’s littermate. Crouching down to peer between stored equipment, I finally spotted two wild, golden eyes staring back at me. I retrieved the kitten, placing her back in the borrowed carrier for safe keeping.

The debate on which cat would be named Pancha and which would be Lefty had concluded. Pancha, meaning “calm” in Spanish, was the small tortie who froze in place. Our other kitten had left us, here whereabouts a mystery.

I was inconsolable that evening as we sat on our front porch swing. My husband had covered every square inch of our twenty-acre hobby farm. The wee kitten was going to spend the night in the wild unknown, where coyote howled and hungered.

The next morning, my husband boarded the golf cart to make the feeding rounds. I was tending to Pancha in the shed when he drove up, missing kitten in hand. He had been driving down to the bottom pasture when he heard meowing. Unable to locate the source, he finally stopped the vehicle. Looking underneath, he found the terrified kitten, who at some point, had curled up underneath it for shelter.

We didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He considered the acreage he covered and wondered if she’d been there the whole time. The sense of relief helped alleviate the shame that lingered over my mishandling of the situation. Mistakes happen, yet I couldn’t absolve myself of this intuitive negligence.

Fool me twice, shame on me

Pancha and Lefty proudly wore the crowns of most spoiled barn cats in existence. I housed them in our empty cabin shell over the summer, ensuring they had frozen water bottles for comfort. I teased them with fake mice on strings, preparing them for the duties that lay ahead.

Over the next few years, they became braver in their exploration of our homestead, but never ventured beyond the barbed wire fence, even though they could easily slip through. It was as if they knew the role they played in my life after the death of my beloved Cooper.

We moved in September 2024, a decision we didn’t take lightly considering we had two outdoor cats. Would they acclimate easily? How should we manage the transition? I wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice.

We made trips back and forth from the old house, leaving food for the girls as if we were just traveling. On the final night of our move, we placed them in their carrier and made the drive an hour north to our new home. Their new barn would be a Taj Mahal-level upgrade from their original shed (but let’s be clear, they never strayed far from our front porch).

Once again, I was left with a choice: let them explore, or keep them confined.

My husband convinced me to open the carrier and let them out on our new front porch. At first, their timidity kept them glued to us. Every noise made them jump. Courage building, they began to explore the yard. Finally, much to my chagrin, they trotted off across the backyard and disappeared into the night.

The same wave of disappointment swept over me. I’d chosen wrong. I was never going to see my cats again.

I called to them the next morning, shaking their food bowl to entice them to breakfast. Nothing.

A soft mew began to waft from the woods beyond our fenceline. I continued calling the cats’ names. I finally spotted Pancha emerge in a nervous army crawl toward the back fence. Unbeknownst to us, the electric fence wire to deter the previous owner’s horses from leaning against it was hot. The girls likely shocked themselves on their nocturnal exploration, keeping them out rather than in.

I had to walk all the way around our 3-acre property and into the woods to retrieve Lefty. She was crouched among the high grass, and our reunion was every bit as sweet as it had been two years earlier.

Me and my shadow, or should I say “familiar”

I love both cats. Pancha is persistent in her need for attention, her favorite gesture being a solid butt scratch right where her spine meets her tail. Interestingly, she refuses to be picked up, which is where Lefty wins out as the more affectionate of the two.

Lefty is especially attuned to my emotions. If I’m seated outside, she seizes the opportunity to crawl across my lap. She’s antsy, however, and I wonder if that’s part of our bond. On the rare occasion that she curls up for a short rest, I feel incredibly special. It means my own energy has matched hers and we are at peace with our surroundings.

I decided last summer that we should paint the house. I hoped the update would serve like a magician’s glamour, transmuting both the house and its residual tension. The previous owner had grown resentful of rural life, and neighbors claimed she was a pot-stirrer. I could feel the energy left behind.

The dark, moody shades I’d seen on other modern farmhouses appealed to me. After testing out several samples on our well house, we decided on Graphite (Raccoon Fur was a fun option, but too yellow-toned for our taste).

The painters finished within a week and the house had delivered on its promise. We were outside admiring the makeover. Lefty was perched like a statue on the light-colored limestone ledge halfway up the house, the newly painted siding serving as her backdrop.

In the past, the contrast of her silhouette against the outdated cream color I loathed would have been obvious. Now, she blended like a shadowy ninja.

It was only then that I realized: the color exactly matched the cat.

Most people would chalk this up to coincidence. Dark grey paint shades offer a refreshing change to the sea of modern farmhouse white made popular by Chip and Joanna Gaines.

For me, however, my ‘familiar’ cat creates a sense of comfort. I’m convinced that our bond, and not the latest trend in exterior paint, subconsciously influenced my choice. She is my cohort in this life. She is my Salem.