It started with an amulet and two cats we couldn't stop thinking about.
The first cat was Milk Tea.
She showed up one afternoon at a friend's shop, starving and wary. Nobody came looking for her. So we brought her home.
A British Shorthair mix with a round face and too many facial expressions, Milk Tea was timid at first. She'd hide under the sofa and watch us from a distance. It took months before she started climbing onto our laps and our bed, then sleeping on our pillows, then following us from room to room like a small shadow.
She is now, without question, the clingiest cat we've ever met.
The second cat was Ramses.
She came to us through a friend — a tiny Abyssinian kitten, curious and full of life.
Eight months in, she stopped eating. Two vets, three tests, one diagnosis: feline leukemia. Incurable. Three blood transfusions. Three times she was close to leaving us. She survived each one, but she would need everyday-medication for the rest of her life.
Today Ramses is stable, playful, and soft. She lives in a separate room to protect our other cats. Every morning starts with her medicine. Every evening ends with a quiet visit and the same thought: please stay well.
That trip to Japan, and the amulet that started everything.
During a visit to a Japanese shrine, we found something unexpected — a small amulet, made for cats. A light bead cord with a tiny plastic charm. It was simple, almost ordinary. But it was for them.
Only Milk Tea’s amulet was made to be worn. Because we could not watch Ramses around the clock, we did not feel it was right to ask her to wear one.
Over time, the clasp of the amulet wore out. But the wish inside it — may she be well — never did.
That's when we started thinking: a blessing isn’t something you acquire on a trip to a shrine; it’s something that was always in your heart. And it certainly shouldn't be something the cat has to put up with.
The real protection a cat has is not an amulet. It's the person who notices when she's off, who brings her to the vet, who adjusts her space so she feels safe. The object is just a carrier for that intention.
So we decided to make our own.
The first version took three days.
Cotton cord, a handmade leather-and-crystal bead, Peruvian knots. No buckle. No breakaway. It looked like a human bracelet scaled down for a cat.
It wasn't good. The Peruvian knots would loosen or tighten as the cats moved—either way, it posed a risk.
So we made another. Version 2 had a breakaway clasp, but the cord was rough. Version 3 switched to leather, but the leather snapped under tension.
Version 4 added a chest plate to distribute the load. That piece of leather became the first canvas for engraved names and contact info — but getting it right took many rounds. Too big, it weighed the necklace down. Too small, there wasn't enough room for lettering. We kept trimming, testing, and reshaping until it carried a name without adding bulk.
Then came the hardest problem of all: a cat necklet that is adjustable, breakaway, under 10 grams, and thin enough to not interrupt a stroke — all at the same time. We needed the clasp to release at the right force, the fit to work on different neck sizes, the weight to stay negligible, and the whole thing to disappear under a hand. These four requirements fought each other at every turn.
We tried sliding knots (not secure enough), spring clasps (too heavy), velcro (collected fur). We tried mounting the breakaway on different parts of the cord. For a while it looked like these requirements were fundamentally incompatible.
In the end, we finally found a way forward—and that's how the Amulcat Necklet was born.
A blessing, softly worn.
That's what we set out to make. Not a spiritual promise. Just a small, well-made object that carries a wish you already have in your heart.
