They Had Everything Going Against Them—Until We Walked Into the Store That Day

It was a regular afternoon in September 2014. My son and I stopped by our local Humane Society resale store—he was hunting for something specific, and I had time to browse.

I wasn’t looking for a new cat. We already had five, all rescues, and I figured our home—and hearts—were full.

But then I wandered to the back of the store where the adoption area was. That’s when I saw them: two black kittens, wide-eyed and full of energy. Their names were Heckle and Jeckle. They were five months old and had been living at the store since July.

Despite their playful antics and obvious affection for each other, the adoption tag told a sad story. No one had shown serious interest. The store attendant gently explained why: they were black cats (still unfairly stigmatized), they were males, they weren’t tiny kittens anymore—and worst of all, they were a bonded pair and had to be adopted together.

To most people, those were four reasons to walk away.

But I saw something else: life. Laughter. The kind of bond you don’t interrupt, but nurture.

I told my wife about them when we got home. She didn’t hesitate. We both knew they wouldn’t be euthanized if left unadopted, but the thought of them spending months—or years—behind a cage door made our decision for us.

She returned with me the very next day.

And the moment she met them, she melted. One soft scratch behind the ear and both boys purred like engines. They nuzzled, snuggled, and looked at us like we were already theirs.

So, we did something crazy.

We made room in our home for two more.

We brought Heckle and Jeckle home, and they instantly set out to prove that our decision was the right one.

Our vet was amazed—she said they were the most identical-looking twin kittens she had ever seen. We ended up using colored collars just to tell them apart.

Of course, adding two new kittens to a five-cat household wasn’t seamless. There were some expected growls and hissy fits from our older crew. But after about a week of sniffs, standoffs, and slow blinks, the tension faded. The house began to hum with a new kind of energy.

And suddenly, it wasn’t chaos—it was joy.

The boys were vocal, affectionate, and constantly on the move. They played, they snuggled, they followed us from room to room like fuzzy shadows. Their older siblings, who had long outgrown kitten zoomies, found themselves pulled back into youthful mischief. There were playful chases down the hallway, spontaneous cuddle piles, and shared bird-watching shifts at the windowsill.

My wife started calling them bugger monkeys—a name that stuck instantly. It’s hard to explain, but it fits. They’re curious, mischievous, and undeniably clever. But they’re also sweet, endlessly affectionate, and surprisingly well-mannered thanks to the excellent care and handling they received at the Humane Society.

They’ve brightened every corner of our home. What started as a simple shopping trip ended in a decision that transformed our family in the best possible way.

Sometimes love shows up when you least expect it—in a resale shop, in a cage labeled “not suitable for most homes,” in the form of two little black kittens with everything stacked against them.

We weren’t looking for more. But they found us anyway.

And we’re so grateful they did.