In March of this year, for the first time in five years, a cat came into our home.
Back when I lived in Singapore, I had a cat named Mii. I cared for her through a harrowing battle with cancer. After losing her, I was hit hard by pet loss, and honestly thought I might never be able to have a pet again.
Mii, our first cat
Then late last year, my husband suddenly said, “What you’re missing is a cat,” and launched into a little personal theory about happiness. Strangely, it made perfect sense. We happened to be moving into a pet-friendly apartment, and before I knew it, a tiny bundle of fur had arrived in our lives.
We named him Moja because he’s just one big ball of fluff. We affectionately call him Mon-chan.
Our previous cat was already a senior, so the difference in energy is overwhelming. This tiny body is packed with vitality.
I find it so endearing to see him sprawling out like he owns the place. More than anything, I hope he lives a long and peaceful life—for both his own sake and Mii’s.
Growing up, my family always had dogs. My grandmother and mother were never fond of cats.
Once, a neighbor behind our house started feeding strays, and before long, our neighborhood was full of them. Our garden was constantly littered with cat droppings, and my grandmother struggled to keep up with the cleaning.
As for my mother, she says she was traumatized as a child by the character “Nekomusume” (Cat Girl) from the anime *GeGeGe no Kitarō*. Ever since, she’s been afraid of cats themselves. It sounds ridiculous, but childhood fears do tend to stick.
When I was in early elementary school, I had a strange and wonderful experience: being surrounded by cats and smothered with affection.
I was the kind of child who truly believed I could speak with animals. Whenever I saw a dog or cat, I would mimic their sounds—“meow meow,” “woof woof”—to communicate.
After school, I would often head to a nearby park next to my school.
Usually the park was full of toddlers playing in the sand, people walking their dogs, and other kids on the playground. But one day, it was almost completely empty. I remember two stray cats sitting on a bench.
I didn’t have anyone to play with, so I went over and meowed at them like I always did. They meowed back. One jumped into my lap, and the other snuggled up close. I was delighted. I kept meowing, and soon, more strays appeared—one, two, and then more.
Before I knew it, I was surrounded. They were rubbing their heads against me, practically in a kitty pile.
Eventually, there were maybe 15 to 20 cats around me. From the outside, I must have looked like a child leading a feline council. I didn’t want to leave, so I stayed with them right up until curfew before going home.
That alone wouldn’t have been a problem, but young as I was, I carelessly rubbed my eyes after petting all those cats.
By the time I got home, my eyes were swollen, bloodshot, and infected—like something out of a horror movie.
My mother screamed when she saw me and rushed me to the eye clinic.
It took a few days to heal, but honestly, all I cared about was that I had communicated with the cats. I was furious when they banned me from going to the park again.
Since that day, my family’s cat aversion only deepened. But for me, that memory has never faded. Even now, when I stroke my fluffy Moja, I think back to that magical afternoon and know my love for cats was never wrong.
Postscript
We’ve since welcomed another fluffy family member into our home.
Though not yet a year old, this new kitten has the same health condition our previous cat had. I hesitated at first, thinking of the past, but it felt like fate.
And just like that, our home has become full of life once again.
