People buy a cat and think, 'Oh that's a beautiful collar. I'll

In the words of Celia Hammond, “People buy a cat and think, ‘Oh that’s a beautiful collar. I’ll put that on,’ but that doesn’t make them a responsible pet owner.” Here lies a truth as old as civilization itself: the difference between appearance and essence, between ornament and duty. To adorn a creature with a trinket is easy, yet to guard its life with wisdom, patience, and sacrifice is the mark of a true guardian. The ancients would say that to mistake the shining collar for the weight of responsibility is to fall prey to illusion, as a man who mistakes a shadow for substance.

This saying arises not from disdain for adornment, but from love for the silent beings who depend on us. The cat, proud and mysterious, is not a jewel to be displayed but a life entrusted to human care. To feed it, to shelter it, to protect it from harm—these are the invisible burdens of ownership. Yet too many see only the charm of possession, not the discipline it demands. Like kings who wear golden crowns but forget the cries of their people, such owners play the role of rulers without learning the art of stewardship.

History teaches us this lesson again and again. Consider the tale of Emperor Nero, who clothed himself in silks and adorned Rome with spectacle, yet neglected the cries of the poor. The city burned under his watch, for he had mistaken outward glory for the inward strength of rule. In contrast, Marcus Aurelius, a man who bore no excess ornament, guarded the empire with patience, diligence, and philosophy. So too is the difference between the one who buys the collar and the one who provides the care. The former delights in surface beauty; the latter shoulders the sacred task of nurturing life.

In our own age, countless animals are abandoned after the novelty fades. A child delights in a kitten at Christmas, but by spring the creature is left hungry and untended. The collar grows dull, the toy grows old, and the living being suffers. This is not mere cruelty—it is forgetfulness of the ancient covenant between humankind and the creatures that walk beside us. When we take them into our homes, we vow, though silently, to become their shelter against the storm. To break that vow is to wound not only them, but the very soul of our humanity.

Let us then hear Celia Hammond’s words as a trumpet of remembrance. The responsible pet owner is not known by ribbons, collars, or photographs shared for admiration. They are known by the quiet acts: the cleaning of bowls at dawn, the steady hand at the vet, the patient tending of claws and fur. They are the unseen guardians, like shepherds upon the hills, whose worth is measured not in appearance but in faithfulness.

The lesson, then, is clear: let us not be deceived by the easy path of ornament. To love is to labor, to guard, to endure. If you would take a creature into your care, count not the price of the collar, but the years of devotion that follow. Ask yourself: Am I ready to rise when it is sick? Am I prepared to provide when the purse is thin? Am I willing to stay when the novelty fades? If the answer is yes, then you may proceed with honor.

Practical action is demanded of us: adopt not for vanity, but for compassion. Feed the hungry, spay and neuter to prevent suffering, provide shelter and medical care as you would for a member of your own household. Above all, remember that love is not shown by what glitters, but by what endures in silence and sacrifice. In this way, the collar becomes not an empty ornament, but a symbol of true guardianship, made holy by the heart that bears its weight.

Thus, let Hammond’s words be carved into our memory as a commandment: Choose responsibility over appearance, devotion over vanity, substance over ornament. For in doing so, we not only honor the creatures in our care, but we also preserve the nobility of our own spirit, passing down a legacy of compassion to the generations yet to come.