It was a dark and stormy night, or so the story goes.

That’s how these stories are always told. Add a little drama and someone waxing poetic, as if the storm were the one remembering the tale. In truth, the night was simply wet and loud and inconvenient. It poured the sort of rain that soaks your socks and usurps your umbrella, floating down the streets now resembling overflowed creeks. Even the usually happy daisies and geraniums bowed their heads on such nights.

The house stood firm against such unpleasant, inconvenient times. The little white farmhouse with cheerful blue shutters and beds of daisies and geraniums, that refused to look serious on a sunny day. From the road it looked quaint. The kind of place nothing stranger than a garden gnome or flamingo should exist.

Inside was another story. We’ll cover it here though so it’s more convenient.

The walls were dark, black in places and bright hues in others. Mismatched furniture covered in velvet neon pinks and acid green pillows. A collection of crystal skulls and candles crept across gaps between tattered, well-loved books. 

Among the plush albeit eclectic surroundings were the rulers of the house, lounging as languidly as possible:

Three calico cats.

They were older, with more than a few grey whiskers. They were dignified in the way cats are wont to be, especially if they believe they hold the house’s deed. One favored sitting atop high shelves and cabinets, lording down from above with narrowed, judging eyes. Another slept in an acid green velvet kitty cave, only reaching out to grab passerbys with a claw or three. The last calico sat on the window ledge behind the kitchen sink. It led the squirrel army, commanded the blue birds and cardinals, all while flicking her tail with authority, as one does.

The house’s owner did not question how she had ended up with three calico queens. She was practical enough to know the odds were suspicious but wise enough not to question it. The Cat Distribution System had already visited her once– technically a bundle deal– and she accepted that arguing with the universe was a losing strategy.

That night, the titular storm arrived.

It rattled the windows and soaked the flower beds. It turned the yard into a growing lake bed that shimmered under her porch light. When the rain finally eased, she stepped outside with a towel. For no reason other than habit.

Small. Grey and white. Both damp and fluffed up like a dandelion gone wrong. It sat in the wet grass as if it belonged there, blinking up at her with wide golden eyes. On its back was a grey spot perfectly shaped like a heart. 

She sighed. 

“Well,” she said to no one in particular as she scooped the kitten into the towel and brought it inside.

The trio of queens sniffed, inspected, and quickly accepted the kitten with the bored patience of all knowing beings who saw the future, greeting each new event with what seemed like practiced casualness. The kitten ate the food the venerable queens shared and sat next to the fridge to warm and dry itself.

That night, the woman walked to bed with her usual feline procession, plus one.

The next storm arrived a week later. It had been a particularly stormy season after all.

She stood in fuzzy slippers, arms crossed across a black gingham babydoll shirt, her fuchsia hair pulled into a messy bun. She pushed up her bright red rimmed glasses as she peeked outside. 

Rain continued to beat down, the rhythmic plops interrupted by lightning and thunder. At last, the storm was spent. 

It became quiet.

Too quiet.

Suspicious. 

She pushed the door open and looked around the yard. Seeing nothing, she let out a deep sigh of relief.

That relief was short-lived as a round tortoiseshell kitten, soaked and furious, sat at her feet. Its gold eyes were enormous and round, the kind of eyes even the grouchiest of grouches would find endearing. Each meow caught a fang on its small lips. Its meow rang with complaint, as though it were complaining to the hotel manager about horrible accommodations and service.

“Oh shit,” she said.

The googly-eyed talkative kitten marched inside anyway.

The new kitten took to the house immediately. The heart marked kitten followed it everywhere as though it was a supervisor training new staff. The calicos tolerated the young brood with their usual long-suffering grace. The queens, sitting side-by-side, perched high and glared as only royalty can at the riff-raff. 

Thankfully the next few weeks were dry. No torrential rains in the forecast. No huge storms.  Nothing arrived. But a small rain shower would send the woman bracing for the arrival of more rain cats. Each light rainfall, an anxiety spike. 

She began checking the weather forecast more often. She kept towels stacked by the door. Even a flashlight and wellies in case she needed to go out into the yard. She bought extra bowls “just in case.” 

As another measure, she bought large cat trees, window hammocks, and a fun walkway from one side of the house to the other that she definitely did not smash her fingers with a hammer multiple times while installing. 

Those “just in case” measures helped prepare for the wet weather and a burgeoning number of cats. 

The woman’s friends visited and commented about the number of cats. They draped every surface and cat tree, every shelf and on the back of every piece of furniture. “It’s like a cat palace.”

She laughed too loudly and changed the subject, desperate to ignore the googly-eyed kitten swatting at her nose ring.

It wasn’t that she didn’t love the cats. She fiercely loved them. She loved the soft ears, the hungry mewls, and the comforting weight of cats pinning her to the sofa. What she didn’t love was the thunderstorms that brought more cats to her. She dreaded stormy nights. 

“Cats are not potato chips,” she looked upwards and shook a fist at the sky one day.

The queens, throughout it all, had garnered their subjects’ loyalty and adoration. As time went by, the older calico trio continued to rule from their perches like immovable, benevolent gods.

“I lost count,” the woman grumbled as she started counting bowls again in the kitchen. Excited cats with perky tails and bright eyes followed her movements. She was never sure how many were there. 

The house was full.

Not a fullness that would cause someone to call the authorities, of course. It was a fullness that couldn’t be measured in tangible terms. Every surface hosted a cat. She started placing down bowls in front of every loaf, every ball, and every angry ball of lint. Somehow dinner time chaos never got out of hand.

One weeknight, the skies tore  open with rumbles and continuous pours. The colorful flowers outside were not faring so well in this storm. It was bigger than any of the others. Rain slammed the roof. Thunder rolled. The lights even flickered. She paced anxiously with a cup of cocoa, in her favorite skull mug, of course.

She waited.

And waited.

Then, when the storms lulled momentarily, she turned on her porchlights and looked outside. 

She heard splashes.

And a meow.

Then multiple meows. They overlapped and argued with each other and the storm both.

She cursed and set aside her cocoa. A now grown googly-eyed tortoiseshell cat leapt down and helped itself to the drink. She closed her eyes and grabbed some towels, calmly calling to the new arrivals.

Apparently, the universe was not finished yet.

Afterall, it was a dark and stormy night, or so the story goes…