01/06/2026
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Mark Twain had 19 cats—and when one went missing, he wrote a newspaper ad so poetic it could make you cry.
The man who gave us Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn, and some of the sharpest wit in American literature had another passion: cats.
Not just one or two. At various points in his life, Twain shared his home with up to 19 cats at once.
And these weren't just anonymous house cats. Each one had a name—carefully chosen, often absurd, always memorable.
Apollinaris. Beelzebub. Buffalo Bill. Satan. Sour Mash. Zoroaster. Soapy Sal.
Twain believed cats deserved names with character, names that reflected their dignity and individuality. Why give a cat a boring name when you could call it Beelzebub?
"I simply can't resist a cat," Twain once wrote, "particularly a purring one."
He wasn't joking. His love for cats was legendary among friends and family. He'd interrupt conversations to pet them, compose letters with cats on his lap, and speak about them with genuine reverence.
"They are the cleanest, cunningest, and most intelligent creatures I know," he said, "outside of the girl you love, of course."
For Twain, cats weren't just pets. They were company, inspiration, and superior beings who graciously tolerated human presence.
But one cat held a special place in his heart: Bambino.
Bambino was a black kitten who originally belonged to Twain's daughter, Clara. Large, intensely black, with thick velvety fur and a thin strip of white on his chest—Bambino was beloved by the entire family.
Then one day, Bambino disappeared.
Twain was devastated. This wasn't just a missing pet—this was a member of the family. So he did what any devoted cat parent would do: he took out an ad in the New York American newspaper, offering a reward for Bambino's return.
But this wasn't a standard "Lost Cat" notice.
This was Mark Twain we're talking about.
The ad described Bambino with the same care and poetry Twain brought to his novels:
"Large and intensely black; thick, velvety fur; has a faint strip of white hair on his chest; difficult to find in the dark."
The response was immediate. Dozens of people showed up at Twain's door, each carrying a black cat they claimed could be Bambino.
Twain examined each one carefully. But none of them were his Bambino.
Then, in typical cat fashion, Bambino came home on his own.
No explanation. No dramatic rescue. He just strolled back in, as if he'd never left.
Because that's what cats do.
Twain was overjoyed. The ad had been unnecessary—Bambino had returned when he was ready, on his own terms.
It was, Twain might have said, the most cat thing that ever happened.
Throughout his life, Twain never understood people who didn't love cats.
"When a man loves cats," he wrote, "I am his friend and comrade, without further introduction."
For Twain, a person's relationship with animals revealed something fundamental about their character. How you treated creatures who couldn't speak for themselves, who depended on your kindness—that mattered.
This wasn't just sentimental attachment. Twain lived in an era when animal cruelty was commonplace and largely ignored. Speaking out for animal welfare wasn't fashionable—it was often mocked.
But Twain didn't care.
He advocated for tenderness, respect, and sensitivity toward animals. He wrote about their intelligence, their emotions, their right to be treated with dignity.
And he did it all with a cat purring in his lap.
Mark Twain—the satirist, the cynic, the man who could skewer human hypocrisy with a single sentence—was completely, unironically, soft for cats.
He gave them ridiculous names. He wrote newspaper ads when they wandered off. He interrupted his writing to pet them. He declared them superior to most humans.
And you know what? He wasn't wrong.
Because sometimes, the wisest heart doesn't need clever words or biting satire.
Sometimes it just needs a purr.
Mark Twain understood that. He knew that in a complicated, often cruel world, there was something pure and honest about the companionship of a cat.
They didn't care about his fame. They didn't read his books. They just sat with him, purring, reminding him that kindness doesn't need to be complicated.
Twain died in 1910, but his love for cats lives on in his letters, his writing, and the stories told by those who knew him.
He left behind brilliant novels, sharp social commentary, and timeless wit.
But he also left behind this truth: a life lived with cats is a life well-lived.
So here's to Mark Twain—literary genius, satirist, advocate for kindness, and devoted servant to 19 cats with names like Beelzebub and Soapy Sal.
The wisest hearts don't always write books. Sometimes they just purr.
