In a new book, a Chinese academic looks back on how her furry friends helped in good times and bad.
Editor’s note: Sun Dong is a professor of English literature at Nanjing University of Finance and Economics, and a lifelong cat lover. In April, she published “How to Be a Cat,” a collection of memories and observations about her feline friends. Following is an excerpt from her essay “The Cats in My Life.”
Foucault had a cat called Insanity, Huxley had Limbo, Sartre had Néant, Derrida had Logos, and my cat is called Schrödinger. Before Schrödinger, I raised two other cats, and a few more have left their paw prints in both the happier and more difficult years of my life.
The first cat I lived with scarred me for life. I don’t remember what color it was — ginger, I believe. It used to lie quietly on top of the quilt cabinet at my grandma’s house. I must have been around 3 years old. I no longer remember what my grandma looked like, only that she had a kind face. She wasn’t my biological grandma; she was actually a nanny.
An illustration by Zhu Rui from the book “How to Be a Cat.” Courtesy of Nanjing University Press
One day, my parents and older sister came to visit me, and they brought lots of treats — cakes, cookies, and canned hawthorn. I was on my father’s lap, and he was sitting on the kang, a traditional heated brick bed, with his back against the quilt cabinet. Without warning, the cat suddenly leapt down from the cabinet, slicing open my right cheek with its hind claws as he did so. Before the blood began oozing from the long gash, I saw the change in my father’s expression. As the scene descended into chaos, the cat darted away and disappeared. No one saw it for days, but before long, it was back chasing the hens that Grandma kept in the yard.
After I turned 4, I returned to live with my parents. I felt down for a long time, partly because my parents were serious academics. Our home lacked the warmth of my grandma’s neighborhood, and I suddenly had all kinds of new rules to follow. Compared with other families, our living conditions were quite good. Our house was built of brick and concrete, much better than Grandma’s thatched cottage, but it had one flaw — the roof was infested with rats. Every night would erupt into pandemonium as these rodents launched into a rooftop “parkour performance.”
My parents tried rat poison and traps, but neither worked. I kept asking them, “Why don’t we get a cat?” To which my mother would firmly reply: “Cats are ungrateful beasts.” I didn’t understand what she meant.
I eventually got a kitten from the older girl next door in exchange for a box of cookies. Her family ran a small grocery shop, and they had a pair of cats. When they had a litter of five kittens, I adopted one. My mom had agreed only on the condition that I take full responsibility. When the kitten first arrived, it cried through the night. I mixed powdered milk to feed her. I didn’t know then that cats shouldn’t drink cow milk, but the kitten didn’t suffer any ill effects — she grew up fluffy and healthy. I named her Bainiu.
In the 1970s, every household had gates and courtyard walls, providing a visual barrier, but not really obstructing access. So even though Bainiu was a house cat, she could still roam. The kids in the community often played together, but usually the boys only played with other boys, and the girls with other girls. Once I had a cat, I became the center of attention among the girls. Every evening, I’d bring Bainiu out for everyone to pet. If she got fed up and ran off, we’d switch to playing with candy wrappers or jump rope. Not far from our house was the Ge family. They had a little black puppy that belonged to their youngest son, nicknamed “Little Liuzi.” He was a bit sneaky, always coming up with bad ideas — and whenever something went wrong, someone else always took the blame.
An illustration by Zhu Rui from the book “How to Be a Cat.” Courtesy of Nanjing University Press
One day, I was playing with Bainiu and the other girls when Little Liuzi and a group of boys came over. They were whispering and pointing at us with apparent malicious intent. Suddenly, one boy ran over and snatched my cat, and then Little Liuzi made his dog mount her. The boys formed a circle, blocking us from getting close. The dog appeared excited and confused, while Bainiu — pinned underneath him — struggled desperately to escape. None of us girls understood what was happening, but we all felt it was wrong. For a moment I was stunned — then I felt a surge of fury. I don’t know where my strength came from, but I fought my way to Bainiu and rescued her. When I returned to the other girls, I was in tears.
That was the first time I’d experienced a humiliation related to sex. People will often say that the past was a more innocent time, that people were simpler and kinder. But that’s just rose-tinted glasses. In an era of material scarcity, petty theft and dishonest behavior were bound to exist. Likewise, in an age of enforced abstinence, desire surged beneath the surface — there was no shortage of perversities and outrages, both overt and covert.
What angered me most was that one of the boys was a good friend of mine, Wu Dong. During that awful scene, I saw him among the boys, laughing along with the rest. I glared at him for a long time, but he wouldn’t meet my gaze. From that day on, we became strangers. I ran into him some time later — he had shot up in height, and his features had changed. It was as if that incident had been a rite of passage into adulthood.
Later, Bainiu started catching mice, and the rooftop grew much quieter. Everyone in the family could finally sleep soundly. Then one day, she ate a poisoned rat and died. I cried for an entire day. What surprised me was that when Little Liuzi saw Bainiu’s body, he looked stunned. I watched from a distance as he crouched down, opened the bag we had wrapped her body in, and stared, as if in mourning. In that moment, you could say I forgave him. But I would never forgive Wu Dong.
It was 30 years before I had another cat. By then, my own daughter was the age I had been when I had first wanted one. We welcomed Ah Mi into our home in 2006. We had originally given her a more poetic name, but she only responded when we called her “Ah Mi,” so we just stuck with it.
Ah Mi was a Chinese black-and-white tuxedo cat. Her markings were lovely, her features charming and expressive. What made her truly special, though, was that she still had the fierceness of a wild cat. A few times, we noticed bloodstains on the stairs leading to the attic, but we couldn’t figure out where they’d come from. Then, one day, we heard a commotion upstairs. When I rushed up, I saw that Ah Mi had caught a fruit bat. I’d never seen her move so swiftly and violently. Within minutes, she had devoured the bat, and was again her usual sweet and lazy self.
Ah Mi and Sun Dong. Courtesy of Sun Dong
At 4 months old, Ah Mi encountered her first rival in the family: a white Persian cat that was temporarily left in our care. Its name was Miantiao, meaning “Noodles,” a name I only recalled as I typed this sentence. The moment Miantiao saw me, she hurled herself into my arms, rubbing her face against mine.
Ah Mi was clearly displeased with Miantiao’s arrival. Miantiao was older and bigger, and naturally took over the household — she was always the first to eat, and the first to claim territory. Also, as a proud alley cat, Ah Mi didn’t appear to understand the intimacy between a Persian cat and its human. As she sat coldly observing Miantiao’s antics, I could practically hear her disdainful snort. Yet, every time I put Miantiao down and tried to pick up Ah Mi, she’d quietly slip away.
After Miantiao was sent away, Ah Mi let loose. That day, she bounced and darted around the apartment like she was dancing, her leaps rhythmic and full of lightness. She pranced in circles, inspected every room like a queen reclaiming her territory, rubbed her face against every door, and rolled gleefully on the floor. Then, in a completely unprecedented gesture, she ran up to me and let me pick her up. I was stunned. I held her gently and gave her a soft massage. She gazed at me; then, as if suddenly bored, she jumped down with a nonchalant air. She never came seeking affection again.
Ah Mi made our home feel complete. Our family of three always seemed to be missing something — and that furry presence was like a primal, stabilizing factor, perfectly filling an indescribable absence. In 2009, when I went to Canada for my postdoctoral work, I even submitted a family photo of the four of us as part of my visa application — proof that I had had a home, a family, and a stable life to return to.
In the end, our family couldn’t stay as complete as we’d hoped, because my mother-in-law moved in with us. Born in the late 1930s, she had lived through famine, and there was simply no way she could understand the care and affection we gave to a cat. On top of that, she was extremely controlling, and my husband was unfortunately the type of son who obeyed her every word. As if to prove his mother’s wisdom about forbidding a cat, he began to develop allergic symptoms, and it became an ultimatum: either the cat goes, or he goes. With my cold, silent acquiescence, the cat was given to an elderly acquaintance who lived alone. The good news is that Ah Mi was treated well in her new home — she was fed with care and even allowed to sleep on the bed. But in our home, that invisible, unnameable gap was torn just a bit wider.
In the years that followed, I rescued and fostered a few cats, fed some strays, and often lingered in cat cafés and pet stores. This helped to soothe the emotional pain of losing Ah Mi.
The two cats in our home now are Schrödinger and Richard. Both were originally strays. We adopted Schrödinger because my daughter needed a “cat actor” for one of her movies. By that time, my mother-in-law had moved out.
A painting of Schrödinger (center) and Richard. Courtesy of Sun Dong
Schrödinger is also a tuxedo cat. Most of our daily interactions revolve around food. When mealtimes roll around, he blinks those big, round eyes and lets out a long meow. Interestingly, he only makes that sound when communicating with humans; with Richard, he uses body language and the occasional purr.
Schrödinger doesn’t eat human food, but he loves watching humans eat. He’ll sit through lunch or dinner, watching intently and smacking his lips as if experiencing some vicarious culinary pleasure.
Now 3 years old and chubby, Schrödinger is also somewhat of an artistic soul. Aside from eating and sleeping, he spends most of his time lying by the window, taking in the view. Now and then, he’ll meow at the stray cats below or the magpies in the trees. Sometimes, I find myself standing silently behind him. For reasons I can’t explain, this seems to reveal to me an even more beautiful view.
Richard was a rescue cat, too. When he first came to our home, his eyes were almost completely covered by a white film, leaving him with only limited vision. Even now, after surgery has restored his eyesight, he habitually tilts his head when looking at things. We happened upon Richard in June 2021. A 2-week-old kitten, he was surrounded by a pack of large dogs. After rushing him to the animal hospital, we learned that in addition to his impaired eyesight, he also had pneumonia and a fractured right leg.
A photo of Richard. Courtesy of Sun Dong
Along with his bad eyesight, Richard looked scruffy — ugly, even — and his personality was at times both timid and fierce. That’s why I named him Richard, after the titular character in Shakespeare’s “Richard III,” who declared, “Since I cannot prove a lover … I am determined to prove a villain.” No one else was willing to adopt him, so we kept him.
As fate would have it, filming for my daughter’s movie was delayed, and Schrödinger had grown too large to fit his original role, so Richard ended up stepping into the breach. Although Richard’s screen time was short, the film shoot was demanding. He spent hours in the rain with the young protagonist. For one scene, they had to huddle in a tunnel that’s about to flood. Given Richard’s personality, staying still for so long in front of a crowd of strangers would normally have been impossible — but just as they were filming the scene, a group of ducklings appeared under the bridge. Richard sat stock-still, eyes locked on the ducklings, until the scene was over.
I take a laissez-faire approach to keeping cats, much like how I’ve raised my daughter. Schrödinger and Richard don’t enjoy a pampered lifestyle. They mostly mind their own business, but they get along well, and rarely ever fight. They’re like little shadows — wherever I go in the house, they follow, playing or napping in the same room. Schrödinger usually curls up at my feet, while Richard stays a bit farther away.
The things our cats have brought to our home far outweigh the scratched-up sofas and broken vases. I feel an inexplicable joy whenever I see Richard’s furrowed brow, or when I pick up Schrödinger’s soft, chubby body. Through spring, summer, fall, and winter, I love seeing our cats well fed and content, tucked away in the coziest, warmest, or coolest corners of the house, looking so at ease. I love the way they dash around. What would life be like without their company? Honestly, I don’t want to imagine.
The cover of “How to Be a Cat.” Courtesy of Nanjing University Press
This article, translated by Carrie Davies, is an excerpt from “How to Be a Cat,” published by Nanjing University Press in April. It is republished here with permission.
Editors: Wang Juyi and Hao Qibao.
(Header image:An illustration by Zhu Rui from the book “How to Be a Cat.” Courtesy of Nanjing University Press)