We said yes before we knew what we were saying. On June 30, 2018, my partner asked whether we could get a cat. I agreed quickly, without much thought. She had never lived with a cat, but within minutes she had found someone on Xianyu giving one away, and by the next day we were going to meet her.
On July 1, in the home of the cat’s then-owner, a half-year-old kitten did something the other cats in the room would not do: she ran straight to the door, flopped onto her side at my feet, and rubbed against me, asking to be touched. It felt like being chosen. We paid 500 yuan and took her home to our 20-square-meter rental, along with cat food, a litter box, and the rest of her things.
She was a curly-eared American Shorthair girl with tabby stripes. For a while we called her “Little Tiger,” but it seemed unfair to give a little girl a name like that. After much debate, she became Mimi.
Her previous owner warned us that the fur in front of her forehead was thin, possibly ringworm. We applied medicine every day until we realized it was not ringworm at all. She simply had sparse eyebrows. That was all.
At that age Mimi was pure energy. In that tiny apartment she climbed, launched herself from furniture, parkoured across the room, and batted paper towels off the table. The funny part was the timing. When we were out, the paper towels could sit right at the edge and never fall. Only when we came home would she walk over, raise a paw, and push the roll onto the floor while looking at us. It made us angry and made us laugh at the same time.
She did not sleep at night. She ran up and down while we were trying to fall asleep, and sometimes crossed my stomach on the way. We lost sleep. We spent half an hour before bed tiring her out with a wand toy. We even bought a large cat cage—a “cat villa”—for that 20-square-meter room, but we sold it soon afterward because she made even more noise jumping around inside it.
After about half a year, she began to show signs of heat. She would raise her rear toward me, which made me awkward. We booked her spay. When we first got her, I thought she was only affectionate with me, but at the clinic she flopped over for the male vet too, asking to be petted. The vet looked confused, then gave her anesthesia. For a while after surgery she withdrew, and from then on she never let anyone touch her belly. The incision probably had something to do with that.
Our life with her was not all peaceful. She nearly got a third owner. The nighttime running wrecked our sleep, and every so often diarrhea left messes around the apartment. One day she got feces on my backpack, and I reached my limit. I decided to rehome her. We posted her on Xianyu again, and soon a buyer contacted us and said he would take her.
Mimi seemed to understand what was coming. She became quieter and more restrained. We had an unexpectedly calm stretch of days. As the date approached, I began to feel reluctant. I thought about this small creature who had lived with us for more than half a year and felt sad. On the agreed day, the buyer told us he could not come after all, for personal reasons, and the deal ended.
Maybe it really was fate. Maybe something wanted her to stay. We decided to keep her and raise her as our child. I still think that was the best arrangement.
Then the honeymoon years. After the two most mischievous years, we had learned each other. We knew her habits, and she was no longer as wild.
I have heard people say that pets grow to resemble their owners. Mimi slept late, like my partner. My partner loves milk tea, and so did Mimi. My partner is a food lover, and Mimi was even more of one. Whenever we finished a milk tea, we would find a small lid and let Mimi lick two mouthfuls. Cake and ice cream were her favorite treats too. We knew too much could give her diarrhea, but she was our little one. A little spoiling seemed harmless.
She loved our bed, but my partner is something of a clean freak and did not think a cat on the bed was hygienic. After repeated correction, Mimi learned not to get on it. Sometimes she would test the edge, but a simple “no” would make her pull back her paw like a child caught doing something wrong. When my partner was away, though, I granted her special permission. She could come onto the bed, and sometimes we slept together.
Whenever we came home, she came to meet us. Over time I developed the habit of calling “Mimi!” as soon as I walked in.
She had a special trick: if we tapped three times on a chosen surface, she would jump up to that spot. After we got an automatic feeder, the sound of it starting would make her freeze for a second and then run for the bowl, paws slipping a little, like Tom in Tom and Jerry.
Holidays were always a problem because we had to find somewhere for her to stay. Over the years she stayed with my labmate, with my partner’s classmates, and with relatives. At least once or twice a year, so she became even more outgoing. She enjoyed herself in other people’s homes. Two stays stand out. In one home there were already several cats, and the competition may have been too much, because she came back thinner. But she was such a food lover that she regained the weight within a couple of days. Another time she stayed with Anne’s relatives. Three people lived there, and all of them spoiled her. A would leave in the morning and add cat food. B would see it was gone and add another scoop. C would add one more. Within a month Mimi had become a little fat cat, passing 5 kg, and she stayed that weight.
She was a fat cat, but still agile. During COVID, when I was very sick in bed, she jumped around on the cabinet above my bed and occasionally poked her head down to look at me. I was annoyed and amused at the same time.
The trouble began, as far as we can trace it, in July 2023. Mimi was sleeping on the upper bunk and slid off with some things above her. Our first thought was to check for injuries or fractures. She was startled, but she could still jump and move, so we let it go and did not take her for further tests.
About half a month later, I noticed that she no longer jumped. She had been so lively before. Now she slept a lot, had low energy, and ate less. We took her to the vet for the first time. The vet did a basic exam and X-rays of her torso. Nothing abnormal showed up, so we were told to take her home and watch her.
Then I noticed involuntary side-to-side head movements. We changed hospitals and had a second exam. The vet suspected an ear canal infection, so we began a long course of ear cleaning and treatment. That wrong direction cost us the best window for treatment.
After more than a month of treating her ears, there was a short period—just a few days in one week—when she seemed to recover. She had more energy and showed signs of wanting to be naughty again. She tried to jump onto the bed several times. We thought things were turning around. Then she suddenly worsened. On the camera, her limbs went stiff and she convulsed. It looked very dangerous. We took her to the hospital that night. A cardiac ultrasound ruled out heart problems. We still did not know the real cause.
She could not stand steadily and walked with a sway. But after her ears were cleaned, her appetite returned to normal. That gave us and the vet a false impression that she was not yet in critical condition. Then, at noon on November 19, 2023, she had another severe episode: her limbs went rigid, and her body and head trembled. I realized she might be in real danger. I drove her to a hospital with CT and MRI.
It was too late. During the MRI under anesthesia, she stopped breathing on her own, although her heart rate remained normal. The MRI showed a large area of inflammation in the left side of her brain that had reached the medulla. Perhaps that was why she could not wake up after anesthesia. After reversing the anesthesia, the hospital put her on a ventilator. We waited three hours. She left us.
Ajie’s goodbye:
It was all so sudden. Last week she still wanted to play on the bed. Now she was on a table, on a ventilator, barely alive.
A few days earlier, when I came home, she still wobbled over to greet me. When I washed dishes, she stayed by my feet. When I took out treats, she rushed to me, stumbling. When we ate at home, she stared at me. Now there is only the empty room, the automatic litter box that no longer turns, the food that drops from the feeder with no cat to eat it, the cat bed that will not grow a cat. The details are all still there. I can almost feel her paw under my hand. The faint smell of her is still in the apartment. The feeder still clicks and drops kibble. But Mimi is not here.
Mimi was a very good cat. Everyone who met her liked her. She was not afraid of strangers. She did not scratch or bite or yowl. She just stayed quietly by your side. When you were saddest, she came and rubbed against you, as if she could read your mood. She could even “talk” in her own way. She was smart. She was the best cat in the world, and I was the worst cat parent in the world—a cat parent who studied neurobiology and could do nothing to help her.
I am sorry, little cat.
I could only walk with you this far. I hope there is good food for you in the cat star. If you miss us, please come to me in a dream. We miss you very much.
Anne’s goodbye:
Mimi, we are back, but you are not.
What is this, little cat? You did not even say goodbye. I bought you so much of the new cat food you picked, and you did not finish it. Is there something better to eat where you are? You did not get to sleep in the new cat bed I bought you for Double Eleven. There are several flavors of cat sticks you did not get to try. I bought you a portable litter box so that when you felt better I could take you out for a ride. We had agreed that once you were well, you would go play with the cat at my aunt’s house. We were going to move to a bigger apartment next month, where you could sit in the sun all day. Why did you leave so suddenly? Was it too painful? Was it too hard to stay awake?
While you were on oxygen, the doctor asked me whether Mimi was a good girl at home. Yes. Mimi was the best, most sensible little cat in the world. Everyone who met you liked you. I will never meet another cat like you.
When I came home that night, I saw the day’s food piled up in the automatic feeder. You are so greedy—you must have been starving after a day at the hospital. I am sorry I did not let you eat your fill before you left. You used to love watching the automatic litter box turn. After every trip to the bathroom you ran back to watch it. I have not heard it turn for many days. Your toys, your bed, your scratching board, your litter box, your water fountain, your feeder—they are everywhere in the apartment. I keep thinking that when I come back from outside, you will still be at the door, stretching to greet me. What are you doing now?
We had planned to take you back to Sichuan in a couple of years, or to Chongqing. We worried that checked baggage would be unsafe, so we had planned to drive you all the way home, with you enjoying the ride. You were only six. We should have had many more years together. Now the plans are all messed up, you little brat.
The urn from the funeral center was a little small, so I bought you a bigger, prettier one. I do not know if you like it. You always liked to squeeze into cabinets. This little cabinet is for you. You do not have to sneak in anymore. Your cat sticks, cans, and toys are inside. I think you will like it.
Sometimes when I wake up in the morning and hear a small sound on the floor, I think it is you tapping into the room. Then I remember you are not here. How are you doing on the cat star? Do you have a soft bed, good snacks, and toys all over the floor? If not, you can still come back to us. We miss you. Do not forget the way home.
Goodbye, little cat. Thank you for staying with us. We will remember you.