I kidnapped a kitten. Despite its violent struggle, I was convinced it wanted to come home with me. That night, the Momma Cat was banging on my door: "Did I say I wasn't raising it?!" My eyes lit up. "No problem! I'll take both of you! Humans just want to give every stray a home!" Momma Cat slapped my hand away, offended. "I am not a stray! I am a wild cat!" "I belong to the wilderness and nature. How dare you call me a stray!" 1 "Do you know what this is? This is kidnapping!" "You don't just grab a cute kid off the street and take them home!" "I have six kittens. I went back and counted four times, and there were only five! I'm bad at math! Are you trying to give me a stroke?" After picking up a kitten off the street, I was getting roasted by its mother until I questioned my entire existence. What hurt more was that after she finished scolding me, she took her kid and left. Before leaving, she jumped onto the coffee table and roundhouse-kicked my water cup across the room. Sob. I was once again a savage with no cat. And now, no water cup. The next day, while buying a new cup at the bodega downstairs, I saw her again. Gone was the majestic, fierce creature from last night. She was purring, rubbing against people's legs, hooking the tip of her tail—effortlessly scampering a sausage out of the shop owner. She grabbed the sausage and bolted. I followed her quietly. She squeezed into an incredibly narrow alleyway. A normal adult couldn't fit. But thanks to childhood malnutrition, I managed to slide in sideways. Inside a cardboard box lined with dirty rags, six kittens looked like wiggling balls of yarn, occasionally letting out tiny squeaks. Momma Cat counted them repeatedly. Only when she confirmed there were six did she relax. She dropped the sausage and licked her paws. I spoke up, startling her. "The temperature is dropping. It might snow. It's not safe here." "I remember you! You're the kidnapper!" The fur on her back exploded. She lowered her body, staring me down, emitting a low, warning growl, ready to turn my face into a scratching post. To understand what she was communicating, look at the body language of a defensive cat. I stepped back, crouching down to show submission. "I was wrong before. I shouldn't have called you a stray. I apologize." "If you don't want to be adopted, can we be friends? You can bring the kids to my place. Be my roommates." My voice was low, pleading. "I'm really lonely. I want to be friends with a cat." The cat didn't seem to agree. But she sheathed her claws. "Cats only make friends with cats. Humans should make friends with humans," she said. "But... it is getting cold." My name is Morgan. Starting today, I am no longer alone. I have seven roommates. One Momma Cat, and her six kittens. 2 That night, I had a dream. I was walking alone in the snow for a long, long time. I was crying and shouting, but I didn't know where my mom and dad were. So cold. Suddenly, it got warm... Wait! A kitten was peeing on my bed! At 3 AM, I changed the sheets. And took a shower. When I used the hair dryer, Momma Cat took the kittens and hid far away. They seemed terrified of the noise, so I turned it off and towel-dried my hair. Momma Cat suddenly said, "Human. It's snowing." I opened the curtains. Sure enough, gray flakes were drifting down under the streetlights like dancing moths. "It really is snowing," I said, surprised. "How did you know?" She jumped onto the windowsill. "Snow is terrifying. Cats know when it snows just by using our whiskers." Cats use their whiskers (vibrissae) as highly sensitive tactile sensors to detect changes in air currents and pressure, often sensing weather shifts before we do. "I also know this snow will be heavy and last a long time. It's going to be freezing out there." She leaned in and rubbed her furry head against me. "Thank you for taking us in." I was flattered. I tried to reach out, but she dodged nimbly. It seemed she only loved me for a fleeting second. I closed the curtains, corralled the kittens back into their nest, and since I couldn't sleep, I boiled some chicken breast for them and made myself some instant noodles. The kittens were teething and struggled with the meat. I wanted to shred it for them, but Momma Cat refused. "If they can't even learn to tear meat, they can't be wild cats." "When the weather warms up, they'll be big enough to go out and survive on their own." I let it go, watching them struggle with the chicken while I ate a beef ball. "Is the human sad?" Momma Cat asked suddenly. "I can smell sadness." I didn't answer. She jumped onto my lap, curled into a ball, and went to sleep. Soft. Warm. 3 Just as the cat predicted, the snow was heavy and relentless. The world turned white. The news called it a once-in-a-decade blizzard. I was so glad the cats were with me. I had heat and a stockpile of food. Once we got familiar, the kittens became clingy, following me around, competing to see who could climb higher up my pant leg. Momma Cat got angry and bonked each of them on the head. "For a wild cat, getting too close to humans is bad," she told me privately. "There are good humans and bad humans." I asked if she regretted coming here. She shook her head, looking at the white window. "Surviving is more important than anything. For wild cats, for house cats... even for humans." One night, I was sleeping soundly when I heard urgent meowing. I turned on the light. Momma Cat was pacing anxiously. One kitten was lethargic, lying flat, occasionally twitching and vomiting. "Human! Look what's wrong with the little one!" I didn't waste time. I wrapped the kitten in a thick pad and rushed to the vet. Momma Cat insisted on coming, telling the other five to stay put. I couldn't get a taxi in the blizzard. I tucked Momma and the sick kitten into my coat and trudged through the snow to the pet clinic. It was closed. Luckily, there was a number on the door. I called, shivering. The vet sounded serious—he said it might be Parvovirus (Panleukopenia) and told me to wait; he was coming down. Feline Panleukopenia is highly contagious and fatal. Knowing the symptoms is crucial for early intervention. "It's okay, the doctor is coming," I whispered, comforting the trembling Momma Cat. The vet arrived quickly. He examined the kitten while Momma Cat and I sat on the side. "I'm not scared," Momma Cat whimpered, burying her head in her paws. "A cat's life is short and fragile. Closer to death than humans." "It's common not to raise a whole litter. That's why we have so many." "I was prepared for loss." She was shaking as she said it. I petted her continuously. "It's okay." I looked up and realized the vet was staring at me. "How is the kitten?" I asked. "The cat is fine. It's not Parvo, just mild indigestion." The vet narrowed his eyes, staring straight at me. "I'm going to recommend a doctor for you." "You're a doctor, aren't you? Can't you cure the indigestion?" "I'm recommending a doctor for you." He looked at me, then at the cat in my arms. "A psychiatrist." 4 "Cats can't speak." "Intellectually, you realize and understand this, right?" Facing the psychiatrist, I opened my mouth but didn't know what to say. Momma Cat was in my arms. I looked down; she looked up and meowed. Of course, I knew cats couldn't speak. But she had spoken to me. And before someone pointed it out, I never felt it was strange. The dissonance made me anxious. The doctor pushed a cup of hot tea toward me. "Don't be nervous. Relax." "Do I need meds? Do I need to be hospitalized?" I whispered. "I don't want to be hospitalized." If I'm locked up, what happens to Momma Cat and the kids? The doctor adjusted his glasses. "Given your condition, there is a degree of cognitive distortion. I would recommend systematic treatment in a hospital." "However, if it doesn't affect your daily life, conservative treatment per your wishes is acceptable." "You might just be socially deprived and lonely. I recommend changing your environment, interacting with people, and making some friends." I nodded. Walking home, the snow started falling again. The cat stayed in my coat. After a long time, she asked, "Are you sick?" I pursed my lips. The doctor said if I ignore it, the symptoms might vanish. "Are you sick because of the cats?" I didn't answer. She lowered her head. When I looked at her again, she just meowed. Back home, I fed them and gave medicine to the sick kitten. Momma Cat jumped onto the fridge, tail swishing, watching me. That night, I couldn't sleep. It was too quiet. And cold. Just as dawn broke, I drifted off. Maybe I was dreaming, but I heard Momma Cat jump onto the pillow. She licked her paws and said: "A window can't keep a wild cat in." In my daze, it took me a while to process that sentence. I bolted upright. The window was open. The cold wind slapped my face. The room was silent. Momma Cat and the kittens were gone.
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