Nine Lives, Nine Tales, And One Very Opinionated Narrator

 

It’s that time of year again—Cat Nights begin today (August 17, 2025). No, this isn’t some Hallmark holiday invented to sell scratching posts and tuna-flavored candles. It’s Irish folklore, and it’s deliciously weird.

According to legend, witches could transform into cats. Not just once, mind you—nine times. Think of it as the original loyalty program: punch your card eight times, and on the ninth shift you’re stuck wearing whiskers forever. Somewhere in the shuffle of folklore, this got tangled up with the idea of cats having nine lives. (Cats, for the record, have confirmed this but declined to offer further comment.)

So, what does this have to do with me? Well, I’ve been busy writing a series about gnomes, narrated not by a wise old wizard or a wide-eyed farm kid but by—naturally—a cat. A cat who does what cats do best: sit in judgment, blink slowly at mortals, and share stories only when it amuses her. Which, frankly, is how all history should be recorded.

And the timing? Couldn’t be more perfect. Because Cat Nights—running from today until Halloween—are basically a seasonal permission slip for all things feline and mystical. If your housecats stare at the corner of the room with great intensity, don’t panic—they’re probably just watching a witch stuck in mid-transformation. Or judging your furniture choices. Hard to say.

Meanwhile, the gnomes in my stories might be busy with their grove councils and gem-rooted politics, but they know better than to ignore a cat. After all, gnomes guard the soil and roots. Cats? They guard the threshold between the ordinary and the strange. And let’s be real: when you’re weaving a tale of hidden groves and golden-hatted gnomes, it helps to have a narrator who can slip through shadows, appear in doorways unannounced, and knock important objects off shelves to see what happens.

So, here’s my challenge to you this Cat Night season: lean in. Pay attention. Notice the flicker in the corner of your vision, the pawprint on the threshold, the strange urge to take a nap in a sunbeam. You might just find yourself in the middle of a gnome tale—or worse, a cat’s monologue. And trust me, you don’t want to miss that.

Because if folklore has taught us anything, it’s this: gnomes might keep the roots grounded, but cats will always get the last word.