I’m a tabby cat, the self-proclaimed “human-taming expert” of the alley.
One rainy night, a new two-legger moved into the third doorway. She moved quietly, walked with her head down, and hesitated for ten seconds before unlocking the door. My assessment: lives alone, socially anxious, knows nothing about raising cats.
As it turned out, I was right: she gave me skim milk.
As a cat with professional standards, I decided to stay and “tame” her. Breakfast must be served at seven in the morning, petting must start behind the ears, and the food bowl must never be placed in a draft. Those are the rules.
The other alley cats say I’m all talk. Afu says I obviously like her, and Old Black says I’m just making excuses to stay. Huahua gives me a weekly intelligence report: the two-legger in the third doorway keeps the air conditioning on for too short a time, but I’ll give her a B+ on account of the rice cakes.
In spring, she learned the alley’s paths from me. In summer, she started talking to other two-leggers. In autumn, she learned how to say no. In winter
In winter, I discovered that my dreams on full-moon nights weren’t dreams.
An ancient palace, a young human in bright yellow robes, and a familiar tabby cat.
That was someone I’d promised to return to, a long, long time ago.
“This cat has tamed plenty of two-leggers. This one is just the first.”
“The first is always the most troublesome. And the hardest to let go of.”
A cat’s-eye view × slice of life × healing each other. Beneath the eaves of an old Shanghai alley, a proud tabby cat and its socially anxious two-legger share the story of four seasons.
