SHEN DACHENG

The Owner That Feared His Cat

translated by Daniel Vesey

The pipe underneath the kitchen sink had been there too long. It eroded through at the elbow, with rusty water seeping out of a small hole. Upon discovery, it had already produced an opaque, reddish-brown puddle on the floor below, around the size of an open palm, dense and tranquil. He had immediately noticed when he happened to open the cupboard door beneath the sink, but identifying exactly where the hole was, then deciding what to do about it—that would take a bit of work. He was no good at this sort of task, and, rubbing his dirty hands together, he admitted defeat. The only useful thing he did was to shift the bottles and jars lying nearby. When a few days later, another identical little puddle appeared in the same spot where the wastewater had been cleaned up, his laziness stopped him from bothering with it. 

Until his cat licked the dirty water dry. 

When the cat was halfway through drinking up the puddle, he arrived at the scene and was able to act in time. Grabbing the cat’s supple body from behind, he coaxed it with soft words, and simultaneously tried to drag it away. But the cat opened the cupboard door on its own and insisted on burying its head and two front legs under the pipe. Even as its owner stretched its body further and further, it effortlessly elongated out to 1.5 times its usual length, remaining unfazed at the whole affair. Later, when the cat finished drinking, it finally consented to being pulled back. Being held, it languidly stretched out its tongue, gradually licking its blood-red mouth back to a colour more gentle in appearance. Hearing a tender scolding coming from the man, the cat cast a haughty glance in his direction before suddenly forming a more serious expression, as if deep in thought, immersing itself in its unfathomable, feline world. 

He hastily found a plumber to fix the leak, and the little reddish-brown puddle in his home vanished from sight. Still, from then on, he felt as though the child he brought up had changed. The innocent and naïve cat from before was now gloomy, sullen. 

One night, he awoke from a dream, opened his bedroom door, and felt his way in the dark through the living room as usual to get to the bathroom. Halfway there, a sudden chill startled him out of his daze, stopping him in his tracks. An iciness descended from his neck right down to his heels, as if a small glacier had burrowed into his t-shirt and was now melting away, leaving broken ice and cold water running down his back and into his pyjama trousers. Hair standing on end, his body turned rigid. After a while, he let out a small burst of laughter to break through the tension, upon which he was able to move again. It then dawned on him that there was no other catalyst, only that the cat was staring at him in the darkness, and the coolness came from its eyes. He felt that his reaction was melodramatic, ridiculous even. Hoping to relieve his embarrassment, he called out his pet’s name, “Scared me to death, what’re you playing at?” But the cat didn’t run towards its owner, and the cute, familiar sound of claws hitting the wooden floor as it walked did not grow any closer. He could vaguely make out a little of what was going on in the living room: the cat was standing firmly, not happy to even grant a purr, instead aiming a fierce gaze towards him. After calling out, he could only shamefully walk away. 

“I’m afraid of my cat.” After having held back for a while, he reluctantly confessed to his friend. To save face as a cat owner, he added, “It’s not anything major, I’m just a little scared.”

“What are you worried about?” His friend had misunderstood. 

“No, fear doesn’t mean worry. ‘Fear’ is. . .” He repeated the word ‘fear’ in another language, as sometimes a foreign tongue can come to the aid of one’s native language in such cases. 

“But it’s just a little cat.” He had a long relationship with this friend, who understood his lifestyle, and was there to witness him adopting the kitten a few years ago. Back then, it was small and soft, as if having materialised out of thin air, taking on shape. In both their minds, if anyone were to hold it carelessly, even for just one moment, it would be destroyed, and they didn’t even dare to speak loudly at it. Afterwards, as the cat grew stronger day by day, learning to run and to jump, becoming resistant to falls and knocks, the image of that young kitten still lay deeply embedded in their memories. Once a kitten, always a kitten, sweet and affecting, innocent and harmless—and for those who didn’t see the cat everyday, this was especially so.

“I don’t know why, but there’s something different about it…” The owner of the cat said, falling silent. 

He was a man who put himself below cats—and not just cats. He was the same when dealing with various types of people, habitually bearing the brunt of any psychological abuse. He actually gained happiness from it, as if his heart was an aching body that needed to be massaged vigorously to feel revitalised. Now, he was reluctant to speak ill of his cat behind its back, and instead looked inward to find answers. Perhaps I am the one to blame, he thought to himself. Maybe if I just treat it better, we’ll get through this together. 

The owner, living in the cat’s shadow, persisted. 

The cat’s initial expression was one of dissatisfaction. On one occasion, he was attentively putting away the cat food, but after taking a few steps, he heard an unsettling sound coming from behind. The cat’s bowl was flipped over, and the food scattered around the room like his own helplessness. Perhaps the cat was just careless, he guessed. But when the bowl was filled up again with food, the cat held out a round paw right in front of him, and, with a wind-like sweep, the floor became a mess once again. This time, while he swept the floor, he earnestly contemplated the situation. A moment later, he took out a can of cat food, bent over, and purposefully placed it at eye level with the cat. The cat sat there, shaking its head. Canned tuna mixed with anchovy—it wasn’t its preference. There was only one option left, so he was rather nervous when he held out this can for the cat to inspect. Luckily, this time, the canned salmon was approved of, and with a subtle nod, the cat rose and left its feeding area, walked over to somewhere it wasn’t normally allowed in, and demanded to be fed there instead. Submitting to the cat’s request, he humbly put down the can. Pride—it’s in the midst of torments such as these that it is diminished, smaller and smaller. 

The cat’s next move was especially suspect. One night, it jumped onto his pillow, delicately nestled its head down, then moved a little away, sweeping his face back and forth with an affectionate gaze. Utterly surprised, he took the cat into his arms and kissed it. The little cat was finally back to its cute, cuddly self. The strange behaviour of the past was just a game, a push-and-pull to spice things up, he thought gladly. A few hours later, a strong suffocating sensation woke him, and he felt as though he was sinking into the depths of the sea, where a large octopus was sucking at his face with its cups, keeping him from seeing anything or taking a single breath of fresh air into his lungs. No, he thought again, there’s no big octopus, I’m on land, in bed, and there’s a cat blocking my face. He forcefully pushed the cat away and could finally breathe again, but at the same time felt a stinging pain in his head—the cat didn’t want to move, and its claws were picking hard at his scalp. “You almost lost somebody important,” he scolded the cat in the aftermath of this calamity, but the cat just responded with a purr of nonchalance. “Don’t do it again!” He tried to wrap his arms around the cat and reconcile, but it slipped out of his grasp. Eventually, he fell back asleep, but good things don’t last forever, and again he awoke, this time from a bright light irritating his eyes. His cat was now coiled on the bedside table, repeatedly flicking the lamp switch. Too dejected to stop it, he lay there dumbfounded as the cat clicked the light on then off again, casting a flickering glow onto his face. He noticed that the lamp was on for a different amount of time each time, from which he spelled out a set of Morse code. The cat finished sending the set, and temporarily left the room in darkness. After a few seconds, it again flickered the light in the same rhythm as before. He decoded it again. He wasn’t mistaken, the cat truly was saying to him: “You— Fool— You— Fool.” 

After this, the cat’s behaviour hovered between mischief and murder. In an unguarded moment, it unscrewed the tap, and it was only when water spilled from the toilet and into the other rooms that he jumped up in surprise. The floor suffered an awful fate, and his favourite carpet was ruined in one fell swoop—he was forced to buy a new one. A couple of days later, he stumbled over his feet as he walked by, and in an instant, fell into the furniture like a clumsily fired arrow, and struggled for a long time before climbing back to his feet. He noticed that the non-slip matting that lay between the floor and the carpet had been partially stripped away by some person—more likely some cat—keeping the edges of the carpet from holding convincingly to the floor. He then remembered that when he was flying through the air, the cat was observing him as if in the good seats of some tennis match, bobbing its head from side to side. It could be said that the cat was intensely concentrated on his flight trajectory. 

The cat learnt to turn on the induction cooker. 

It chewed off the plastic casing over the wires. 

It rubbed itself against the door of the balcony until the glass was exceptionally clean, then secretly closed it . 

It pulled out dirt from underneath the furniture and stirred it into his drinking water. 

Every day of his life with the cat became a battle of life and death, with both his health and physical mobility on the line. He hid from it, tried to soften it with words, bribed it with cat treats and toys, but no matter what he did, things just kept getting worse. 

His last-ditch effort was to take the cat to a reputable animal clinic. There, he first saw a general practitioner, and then was referred to the animal psychology department. To his surprise, when he and the cat went into the psychiatric consultation room, within a few minutes, the same doctor who had just seen the cat in the general department next door appeared again. It turned out that there was only one doctor to oversee every department, leaving him to question the professionalism of this clinic. The doctor gave no explanation, testing the cat as if nothing had happened. Outside of the house, the little cat behaved perfectly. With bright eyes and mellow energy, it reacted sensitively to the unfamiliar surroundings with decisive and measured actions. It was already a beautiful cat to begin with, and when it rolled over on the treatment table and revealed a belly as white as new-fallen snow, it won the doctor over with its lovely, innocent demeanour. Rather than examining it, the doctor seemed to be playing with the cat. The owner hadn’t seen his cat act like this in a long time. He felt confused, becoming increasingly distrustful of the doctor. He thought to himself, You picked this career just so you can pet cats all day, right?

The doctor played around for a long time before saying—in a tone that didn’t seem to take the owner seriously—“You said it drank unclean water at home, then its character changed, its morals seemed tainted, and it became aggressive. Say if someone doesn’t have a healthy diet, and there are issues with their intake of micronutrients, their personality can experience changes. However, this little cat… Ah, so cute… The examination is over, please don’t lick my fingers again. There are no problems with your cat, it’s very healthy. In fact, in my opinion, we get too worried about our cats eating bad food, and this makes us anxious, but it’s just overthinking.” The doctor was hardly looking at him as he spoke, and kept crying out “no, no, no” even as he repeatedly reached his hand over to the cat’s white fluffy belly to stroke it. In the owner’s heart, he knew too well that when a cat sets out to please someone, its charm is something no one can resist. 

He wasn’t really annoyed at the doctor favouring the cat over him, but was deeply disappointed at seeing his cat act so differently out in the world. The cat, once at home, would go back to its old ways. He had continued to endure the humiliation—but something changed. He no longer called out when in pain or scolded the cat.He had already abandoned the thought that he could keep living like this, so there was no longer any point in reacting.

As soon as he left the hospital, he immediately made a decision. On the way home, perhaps having seen what looked like familiar trees and buildings, he got off at the wrong place, an unfamiliar bus stop. He stood there clutching his pet carrier, looking around in all directions while his cat peered out absently through the mesh, not making a single sound. It now had the look of an off-duty actress, slouching after having removed her makeup. The area he found himself in was very secluded, and upon closer inspection, it looked nothing like his neighbourhood. He had no idea why he had gotten off the bus, but crept over towards a children’s park. A few colourful recreational facilities were sitting idly, and as he approached, he unexpectedly found a child there, wearing a backpack and with a healthy, earnest look about him, most likely skipping school. Not knowing what to do, he feigned carelessness—rubbing the slide, pressing down on the high end of a seesaw, pushing the swings a few times, wandering around. Everywhere he went, the child kept turning towards him like a sunflower pivoting towards the sun, making him feel very uneasy. Suddenly, the kid questioned him: “Why don’t you want that cat anymore!” He was shocked, and replied, “No, no, I don’t want to abandon the cat. I just happened to walk here, and came for a quick look.” But the child stared at him solemnly, his face puffed out in indignation. He could only leave, holding the carrier. Turning back several times midway, he saw the child trailing him at a distance, staring. It wasn’t until he got back to the bus stop that he looked to find that the child was no longer behind him, causing him to breathe a sigh of relief. 

No, he would never actually abandon his cat, that would be too morally corrupt. It was an act of madness, a mistake. If he hadn’t come across the truant child, he would’ve still stopped himself at the last minute. But as he took the cat home, his resolve remained. He only had to wait, to let it simmer a while longer, until it became strong enough to fight off any other ideas—then he could act on finding the cat a new home. Who knows, maybe I’ll go and ask Dr. Touchy if he wants you, you seem to like each other. 

One day, while he was mulling over the issue, the cat took advantage of the dark night to escape through an unclosed window. 

The following morning, a breeze blew in through the half-opened window, sending a breath of freedom over his body. Normally, when not tormenting him, the cat had liked to crouch down and look out the glass. Now, he stood at the window for quite some time, his eyes continuously fixed outward. He didn’t know what he was looking at, but his shoulders gradually loosened. By the end of the day, the cat had still not returned, so he went out and made a token search of the neighbourhood, but with no success. Just like that, he was free of the cat that had terrified him. 

In the several months since the cat left, the sky had changed to a different shade of blue, and two seasons went by methodically. From being a cat owner to not having a cat at home, it’s a strange feeling—his friend often let out such sentiments when hanging out at his house. The friend was right. The cat had not been forgotten, it left behind the feeling of a cat being absent, in which it continued to linger. 

The friend asked him if his “cat phobia” had gotten any better, to which he replied that it had, and that he now felt very much at ease. 

During this period, he had his ups and downs. At first he felt a huge relief, but later, he descended into self-blame. He began to reflect—maybe the window was left open on purpose that day, and in his subconscious he had hoped that the cat would leave on its own accord, which it did. His friend, failing to console him, even went as far as to suggest: “I’ll go for another drive down the road with you, maybe we can pick up a new kitten. It’s not hard to find one on the street, I’m sure you’ll get a good one that behaves well this time.” But each time he heard a strange sound coming from the grass by the roadside, he rushed away, fearing it could be one of the kittens his friend said the streets were so replete with. He was afraid of getting involved in another troubled human-cat relationship, which he simply couldn’t bear. 

At this point, hearing him say that he felt fine, his friend felt at ease. “Well, that’s good then,” was the friend’s response. 

His face really did look a lot brighter. But he didn’t tell his friend the true reason behind his improved mood.

Because he was such an emotional person, he often went over and over what happened with the cat, consciously and subconsciously. Whenever he got to a point that didn’t make sense, he couldn’t help but trace things back to their origin, reorganizing the events. He had raised the cat from when it was incredibly small, feeding it formula drop by drop through a syringe. He reminisced on the little details of its growth, which were nothing if not sweet. The cat was loved by everyone, it was capable of softening the fiercest of hearts, and he himself was the gentlest of all cat owners. Its hostility towards him later on—to the point of making his very existence into a game—just didn’t make sense. At this point, his thoughts would get tied up in knots, and he would start thinking again from the beginning. 

He slowed down, and an image finally surfaced in his mind: the cat likes to gaze outdoors, and soon after walking over to the window, it would become completely still, looking out at the world with great intensity, absorbed to the point that it would forget to wag the tail that betrayed its inner life. If he tried to play with the cat, it wouldn’t pay any attention to him. If he went over to look at its face from the side, he’d see its eyes wide open, its whiskers solemn, staring forward with a look of oblivion. If—he continued to think in relation to this image—the cat’s will was to leave the house it shared with a human, to return to the wild where it was born, to pursue its dream of freedom, which it wanted so badly, which was all it could think about, then it needed to lay the groundwork for its exit, it couldn’t just rush out of his life at once. This was all out of love. 

The little cat loved me too much, so it started causing trouble to make me resentful and afraid, leaving me to hope that it would go away, so that when it did finally go, I’d be spared the heartbreak. And I, like the code it transmitted through the table lamp, I am the fool. Once the owner decided to think in this way, the knots untangled, and his wounds were healed. 

He knew that if he relayed his suspicions to his friend, the friend would definitely start cursing him out, “You need to stop fantasising, forget about that cat, let’s go and get a new one!” And he also knew that he’d be unable to prove the cat’s affections for him. He was a man who loved the cat deeply, and beneath this perceived spinelessness was something delicate, precious.