Her name was Félicette.

And once, she soared among the stars.

In 1963, while the world marveled at men orbiting Earth and dogs rocketing into the void, France quietly prepared a different kind of astronaut: a tuxedo cat plucked from a Parisian street. Trained to withstand the rigors of launch, monitored through implanted electrodes, and strapped into a capsule beneath the Véronique AG1 rocket, Félicette became the first feline in space.

Her mission lasted just fifteen minutes.

She returned safely. And then—was forgotten.

For decades, history remembered her as “the space cat.” Her name was scrubbed, her face blurred, her contribution reduced to a footnote in human ambition. She had no statue. No grave. No song.

But she had floated in weightlessness. She had seen the Earth from above. She had survived a journey no other cat dared make.

Only in recent years—after the tireless efforts of advocates and animal lovers—was she honored with a bronze memorial, finally bearing her name: Félicette. Tail curled like a question mark. Eyes tilted toward eternity.

She reminds us that not all heroes walk on two legs.

And not all explorers are remembered—until we choose to remember them.