Some cat.

Sometimes love comes quietly, on soft paws, and changes you forever.

I don’t like cats. I prefer dog: they change everything when they come into your life. They are intelligent, loyal, and friendly. Dogs give you a kind of love that not every human being is capable of, and that is something amazing.

However, today I am not writing about dogs, but about cats, or rather, about one amazing cat.

I don’t remember ever dreaming of having a pet as a child, because animals came into my life early and naturally. But my parents told me that once, I wanted a cat so badly that one day I brought home a kitten and announced that it would live with us. My parents accepted the news and supported me. They were both raised with animals, so to them having a cat was simply a normal part of life.

But that evening, angry people came to our apartment. They were with a crying child and told my parents that I had stolen the kitten from their daughter. My parents returned the kitten and apologized for me. I refused to admit it and sobbed uncontrollably. I didn’t want to be separated from my kitten. It was mine too. I loved it. But my parents did what they believed was right. I felt the whole world was unfair. I stopped talking to them and sat in my room, crying alone.

Sometime later, I came home from a walk and my mother told me that someone was waiting for me — but that it was a bit scared and hiding under the sofa. I bent down and looked underneath. Two green eyes were staring back at me. They were incredible.

I called softly, but the kitten didn’t come out. I waited and waited for our first meeting. It finally appeared three days later, sneaking out to get some food before hiding again. It was the ugliest kitten I had ever seen; thin, frightened, with grey fur and strange reddish spots, but I fell in love with it immediately. It was a girl. I called her Katyaka, though I don’t know why. That’s how our friendship began.

My father had found her on the street, abandoned and unwanted. But from that day, she was mine. I was so happy. I tied a piece of paper to a string and played with her for hours, letting her chase it. I built her a small bed, but she never used it. At first, she slept under the sofa, then one day she chose a chair with a soft red pillow and made it her place. Only a few times I can count them on one hand, she slept in my bed. She came on her own, usually when I was sick or sad. She lay at my feet and kept me company. She didn’t let me hug or kiss her too much; she always escaped my affection. My mother used to say that the cat and I had the same personality, too wild.

Katyaka was free. She always left our apartment and came back on her own. We never tried to keep her trapped inside. She was a true hunter. Over time, she collected many scars, and they made her look even rougher — one of her ears was torn in a fight.

When we went to the summer house, she brought me her trophies: jerboas, rats, mice, even snakes. I always lectured her that she didn’t need to be a murderer, that killing wasn’t good and unnecessary because I could feed her. But she ignored me and proudly brought her prey to me anyway. My mother would explain that it was simply nature. The world was cruel and violent. While I buried the little bodies and Katyaka devoured the fish my father had caught for her in the river.

One summer, we left the house for a few days and left her there, as we had done before. But when we came back, she was gone. We waited, searched everywhere, called her name in the nearby woods. She had vanished. My heart broke. I felt guilty for leaving her. It was my first great loss.

Then one day, my brother and I went to the river. I saw a big ball of dust rolling quickly toward us. We stopped and then I heard a loud cry. It was Katyaka, all covered in dirt, thin as always, but it was her. I ran to her, scooped her into my arms, kissed and hugged her. It was one of the happiest days of my life — our reunion.

Our friendship was built on trust, space, respect, and care — without control or obsession. She taught me how to love without owning, how to be near without caging another being, simply to appreciate their presence.

When she grew older, she slept more and left the house less. And then one day, she left again this time without goodbye, and never came back. I waited for her endlessly, unable to accept that she was gone.

But I always knew one thing: she had chosen me. Not for food or shelter, but because she felt me, needed me; in her own silent, wild way.

My mother saw how hard it was for me to lose her, so she brought home another kitten. But I couldn’t love it. It sought affection from me that I simply couldn’t give. It wasn’t my Katyaka.

Since then, I don’t like cats, and I don’t want to have one again. I had one special creature once, and that was enough. If I ever have a pet again, it will be a dog.