In a tale where love defies logic and biology, The Woman Behind the Cat / The Cat Behind the Woman is a later-in-life shapeshifter romance steeped in magical realism, self-discovery, and second chances.
Clara once lived as a cat. Now returned to a woman's body through a mysterious scientific experiment, she must relearn what it means to be human—emotionally, physically, and intimately. At her side is Bruce, her lifelong love, now reincarnated into the form of a majestic Irish wolfhound. Together, they navigate a bond deeper than blood, stronger than time.
From the cobbled streets of postwar Bath to the feverish chaos of 9/11 New York and the wild serenity of the Canadian mountains, Clara and Bruce's journey spans continents and decades. When tragedy strikes on September 11, Bruce becomes an unexpected hero—his sacrifice revealing a hidden strength forged in loyalty and love.
But as years pass, their unaging bodies raise questions, drawing attention in a world that doesn’t understand their paranormal bond. Amid heartbreak, new beginnings, and encounters with those who suspect the truth, Clara finds herself caught between memory and identity, science and soul.
Literary fiction meets science fiction romance in this sweeping novel about the wild shape of love, the limits of transformation, and the ache of being almost—but not quite—human. With undertones of genetic engineering and philosophical longing, Clara’s journey is not only about surviving… it’s about becoming.
Will she and Bruce ever truly belong? Or will their secret remain buried beneath paw prints and pages?
Genre: FICTION / Romance / Later in LifeThis is a new published book, but I have reviews from Instagram and Facebook that everybody who read this book loved it
PROLOGUE - YOU MIGHT NOT BELIEVE ME
You may find it hard to believe, but I am 105 years old... and once, I inhabited the elusive form of a cat.
It’s not the typical way to begin a story, I acknowledge. Nor is it the conventional manner in which one would expect it to conclude. Yet, I have lived many lives—some gentle and serene, others stark and jarring. If there’s a single lesson I've gleaned from these sprawling decades, it’s that time is far from linear. It loops and spirals, it echoes through the corridors of memory, and it conceals elements of our existence. Sometimes, it even leaves behind traces of fur.
Now, I dwell in a quaint flat nestled above an old-world bookstore in Norwich, the scent of musty pages wafting through the air like a comforting embrace. The windows shudder imperfectly on their frames, allowing the wind to weave through the gaps, whispering secrets that dance around my fragile soul. My knees ache like weathered branches, my hands bear the patina of age—liver spots mingling with stories begging to be told. Each dawn, I brew my tea with the precision of a ritual at six o'clock, and every afternoon, I scatter crumbs for the pigeons, much to the chagrin of my neighbors. They fail to understand that some promises are sacred, meant to be honored despite the protests of the world.
