Samantha

 Oh, absolutely—Samantha *definitely* considered it. In one of those rare, frazzled moments—maybe after Endora “accidentally” turned Darrin’s business suit into peacock feathers *right* before an important client meeting, or critiqued her parenting while simultaneously encouraging Tabitha to levitate the silverware—Sam would catch herself mid-nose-wiggle, picturing it: Endora, but smaller. Fluffier. Purring on a sunbeam instead of draping herself dramatically across the living room divan with a martini and a withering remark about mortal interior design.

For a witch capable of conjuring entire feasts or teleporting across continents, transforming her mother into a cat would’ve been child’s play. And oh, the appeal! No more unsolicited advice about potion technique. No more surprise visits with cryptic warnings about “the curse of complacency in mixed marriages.” Just a dignified, tuxedo-coated feline with luminous green eyes, content to nap in a woven basket… preferably in another room. Samantha could even name her something innocuous like “Mittens” and pretend she’d adopted her from the ASPCA. Bliss.
But then reality—and intimate knowledge of Endora’s indomitable spirit—would kick in. Because let’s be honest: a feline Endora wouldn’t be docile. She’d be *regal*. She’d knock Darrin’s important papers off the desk with surgical precision. She’d sit on the highest bookshelf, tail flicking like a metronome of disdain, silently judging Samantha’s choice of cat food (“Canned? How pedestrian, dear”). She might even learn to open cupboard doors with telekinesis—*still* a witch, after all—and bat enchanted trinkets onto the floor at 3 a.m. just to remind everyone who truly ran the household.
And worse? Tabitha would adore her. She’d whisper secrets to the cat, and the cat would blink slowly in return—*knowingly*—and suddenly little spells would go slightly awry: cookies turning blue, stuffed animals staging midnight parades. Samantha would realize too late that giving Endora paws hadn’t silenced her—it had just made her *more* inscrutable.
So yes, Samantha may have entertained the fantasy—perhaps even sketched it out invisibly in midair—but she wisely let it vanish with a sigh and a resigned smile. Some magics, she knew, were better left uncast. After all, even a witch needs boundaries… and sometimes, the most powerful spell is simply learning to live with your mother.