I stood in the hospital with the doctor’s words still ringing in my ears, staring at the kitten as if my will alone could keep his tiny chest moving.
His body temperature had dropped below 35 degrees. His breathing was shallow. His head rested heavily on the bedding, and when I called him, there was no sign that he recognized my voice. Yesterday he had eaten. Yesterday he had made a small sound. Yesterday, in that ride-share box on the road to Nanjing, I had let myself believe that maybe he only needed medicine, food, and rest.
Now the doctor was telling me he might not survive.
Even if he did, it would cost money.
The doctor asked if I still wanted to save him.
I do not know why that question hurt so much. Maybe because it made the situation real. Maybe because it forced me to admit that I had a choice. I could stop. I could decide this was too much for a kitten I had only known for a day. I could tell myself I had already done more than most people would have done. I could say I had tried.
But the image of him on the street came back immediately.
Eyes closed.
Tiny body sitting by the roadside.
People walking past.
No one stopping.
If I gave up now, what was the difference between me and everyone who had hurried by?
“I must save him,” I said again, more firmly this time.
The doctor looked at me for a moment, then nodded.
They began the infusion.
They prescribed a pile of medicines, so many that I could barely remember which was for his eyes, which was for his nose, which was for inflammation, which was for digestion, which was to support his weak little body. The doctor said something that almost made my legs give out: if the kitten d!ed before finishing the medicine, they would refund the unused medicine money.
I understood the doctor was being practical.
But hearing it said that plainly made the air leave my chest.
If he d!ed.
The word sat beside us in the ward like a shadow.
I almost could not hold myself together. I had known him for only one day, yet I already felt reluctant to part with him. That frightened me too. How could such a tiny life, one I had never planned for, one I had barely touched because I had once been afraid of cats, already make me feel this much?
The kitten lay quietly in the ward while the infusion dripped into his little body.
He barely moved the entire morning.
Several times, I thought he had stopped breathing.
I would lean closer, eyes fixed on his tiny ribs, waiting for the faintest rise and fall. One breath. Then another. Sometimes the movement was so small that I had to watch for several seconds before I believed it. My body stayed tense the whole time, as if relaxing might make him slip away.
The ward felt too bright and too cold.
Other animals came and went. People talked softly. Phones rang. Doors opened. Doctors moved between patients. Life continued around us, but I only had one world in front of me: this sick kitten, this stranger I had picked up from the roadside, this little body that seemed too fragile to carry so much suffering.
I kept thinking, please.
Not because I knew how to pray properly.
Just please.
Please breathe.
Please stay.
Please let me see who you are when you are not fighting so hard just to remain alive.
By the afternoon, something changed.
At first, I thought I imagined it. A small movement. A weak lift of the head. Then he shifted again.
The doctor placed food near him.
And the kitten got up.
Not strongly.
Not gracefully.
But he got up and ate on his own.
I covered my mouth with my hand.
That small act felt like the sun breaking through a storm.
Seeing him eat after such a frightening morning made my whole body soften. I finally felt relief, though I was afraid to trust it too much. The doctor said he was surprisingly strong. They had thought he might not make it.
I looked at the kitten, his face still crusted, his eyes still infected, his body still too thin, and felt awe.
“You’re amazing,” I whispered.
He ate like he agreed.
That evening, after spending the whole day with him on the drip, I finally took him back to the hotel to rest. I was exhausted in a way I had never known before. Not only physically, though I had barely slept. Emotionally. My heart had gone through fear, hope, panic, helplessness, and relief all in one day.
At the hotel, he could open his eyes a little.
Only a little.
The lids were still swollen, the discharge still there, his nose still runny. He sneezed several times, tiny wet sounds that made me wince. But he had appetite. He ate quite a lot for such a small sick kitten, and after eating, he even had enough energy to cause a little mischief.
That mischief nearly made me cry with happiness.
A kitten who makes trouble is a kitten with energy.
A kitten with energy is a kitten who is still fighting.
On the third morning, he opened his eyes more.
The sight stunned me.
They were not fully clear yet, not bright the way healthy kitten eyes should be, but they were open enough for him to look at me. Really look. He crawled onto my feet and sat there, his tiny body pressed against me as if he had already decided I belonged to him.
I had never liked cats.
That sentence felt ridiculous now.
This small creature, with his infected face, weak body, swollen foot, bad stomach, and stubborn appetite, had crawled onto my feet and quietly changed my life.
He seemed dependent on me.
Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just by coming close. By choosing my feet as a place to rest. By looking up with those eyes that had almost closed forever the day before.
I gave him a name.
Jiu Wan.
Nine lives.
I wanted the name to be a blessing, a command, a hope. I wanted him to borrow luck from the name if he needed it. I wanted him to survive all the things his little body had already endured and all the things we still did not know were waiting.
“Jiu Wan,” I said softly.
He sat on my feet like the name had always been his.
By the fifth day, the fragile rhythm of care had begun to form.
In the morning, Jiu Wan ate well. His stools looked normal enough that I felt hopeful. I cleaned his face, gave the eye drops, nose drops, anti-inflammatory medicine, and whatever else the doctor had prescribed. I watched him eat, checked his breathing, wiped discharge, and tried to make sense of a life that had somehow become organized around a kitten I found by accident.
Then, in the afternoon, his appetite dropped.
That scared me immediately.
With a kitten so weak, every change felt dangerous. A missed meal was not just a missed meal. It was a warning. Then came diarrhea.
I took him to the hospital.
The doctor prescribed medicine for diarrhea and told us to try it first. I wanted to believe that would be enough. Maybe the medicine would work quickly. Maybe his body was just adjusting. Maybe the infection, stress, hotel, travel, and new food had upset his stomach.
But after two days, he still had diarrhea.
I was exhausted, worried, and afraid to sleep.
Then, just as I was about to rest, Jiu Wan suddenly vomited.
The fear that hit me was immediate and sharp.
I picked him up and rushed out again, searching for a 24-hour pet hospital. Night emergencies feel different. The streets are darker, choices feel fewer, and every minute seems louder. I held him carefully, trying not to shake, trying not to imagine the worst.
At the hospital, the doctor asked what he had eaten and examined him carefully. They said there was no problem with what we had fed him. They tested him for panleukopenia, coronavirus, calicivirus, parasites, and every possible disease they worried about.
All results were negative.
I should have felt relieved, and part of me did. But I was also confused. If all the tests were negative, why was he still so sick?
The doctor said he might simply be too young, too weak, with low immunity. His stomach was not good. His body had been through too much. Sometimes there is no single neat reason; sometimes a small animal is sick because every system is struggling at once.
Then, during the examination, the doctor suddenly found an injury on his left hind leg.
His little foot was swollen.
I stared at it.
I had noticed one hind leg looked thicker than the other, but an earlier doctor had told me his right hind leg was disabled, so I had focused on that. I thought the right leg was the problem. I had not understood that the left foot held a wound that was growing worse.
The doctor cleaned the area.
What they found made my stomach twist.
Jiu Wan’s left foot had a large wound.
It was already festering.
It had to be cleaned thoroughly.
I helped hold him still while the doctor worked. Jiu Wan struggled in pain, his tiny body twisting with more strength than I expected from something so small. Watching him suffer like that nearly broke me. I wanted to cover his foot, cover his eyes, take the pain away, apologize for not knowing sooner.
“How can you be so pitiful?” I whispered, my voice shaking.
How much pain had he been in these days?
He had eaten, crawled, sat on my feet, meowed softly, and fought to live while this wound was hidden on his tiny foot.
I felt sad.
I felt angry.
If the previous doctor had found the wound earlier, maybe it would not have become so severe. Maybe he would not have suffered so much. Maybe the infection would not have progressed like this.
But anger could not clean the wound.
So we continued.
Once the wound was treated, I took him back, hoping he could finally sleep.
But just as I was about to let him rest, he vomited again.
Back to the hospital.
Another anti-vomiting injection.
Another infusion.
Another night of waiting, watching, worrying.
By morning, I felt like the whole world had narrowed into a cycle of crisis. Feed, medicate, worry, rush to hospital, test, clean wound, return, vomit, rush again. I had known him less than a week, but the days felt like months. He had already filled every corner of my mind.
Early the next morning, I went to see him.
He seemed a little better, but still very weak.
He was curled up in the ward, tiny and exhausted, with that injured foot tucked awkwardly and his face still marked by illness. I stood there looking at him and wished with everything in me that he would recover soon.
Not because caring for him was hard, though it was.
Because he had suffered enough.
On the ninth day, while cleaning Jiu Wan, I found white worms in his stool.
My whole body went cold.
We tested again for feline distemper—the third test—and thankfully, it was negative. Then the stool test confirmed parasites.
The doctor said it was parasitic gastroenteritis.
Without deworming, he would continue having diarrhea. Severe cases could lead to collapse and d3ath. But Jiu Wan was too small, only 350 grams, thin as a skeleton. Many deworming medicines were not safe for such a fragile kitten. The doctor and I discussed it for a long time, weighing risk against need, fear against necessity.
Finally, we found a gentler option.
They gave him a tiny amount.
The doctor warned me he would still have diarrhea for several days as the parasites left his body. He would be weak. He needed special attention.
Special attention became my whole life.
I watched him almost constantly. I did not get a full night’s sleep. Every sound made me check him. Every silence made me worry. I fed goat milk powder, probiotics, and the new milk cake cat food he thankfully liked. I kept up with medicines. I cleaned his face. I wiped his bottom. I watched his little foot slowly heal.
Even in the middle of all this, Jiu Wan had good energy.
That amazed me.
His body was small, but his will was not.
“Hang in there,” I told him. “You’re the best.”
On the tenth day, I brought Jiu Wan home.
His condition was better. He was eating and drinking well. His spirits were good. The new cage had not arrived yet, so he had to stay in the box for a few more days. It was not ideal, but it was safe, and safety was all I cared about.
At mealtime, I moved quickly and carefully.
Eye drops.
Nose drops.
Anti-inflammatory medicine.
Prescribed medicine.
Food.
Water.
Cleaning.
Rest.
Repeat.
His foot injury could only heal slowly, the doctor said. He could not walk long distances. After a short walk, he had to sit and rest. His steps were unsteady. There was no way around it. The doctor also said his left leg was congenitally disabled, or at least had a long-term issue that might not fully correct. We could only care for it and watch whether it improved as he grew.
Seeing him walk like that broke my heart.
His tiny body tried so hard, but one leg did not cooperate normally. He moved awkwardly, stopping often, sitting when tired. Poor Jiu Wan might become a little three-legged kind of cat in spirit, even if the leg remained there.
But I still hoped.
I hoped under my care his leg would recover as much as possible.
By the thirteenth day, Jiu Wan had been fighting diarrhea for days. Because of his foot injury, he could not use the litter box properly, so I wiped his bottom every day. Before Jiu Wan, I never imagined I would be doing this for a cat. I had never even wanted a cat.
Now I was wiping this tiny kitten with more tenderness than I knew I had.
After he passed three large worms, the diarrhea finally stopped.
The relief was enormous.
He would not be a smelly little cat anymore, I joked softly, though the truth was I would have cleaned him no matter what.
His foot began to dry and scab.
He should heal soon.
For the first time since finding him, I felt he had truly pulled through.
I had taken Jiu Wan to six pet hospitals.
Six.
Every doctor had warned me he probably would not survive.
But my Jiu Wan made it.
He was strong and amazing.
Two weeks had passed since I picked him up from the street. It was only then that I finally felt my body relax. Not fully. I still worried. But the constant feeling that he might slip away at any moment began to ease.
I knew once he fully recovered, he could grow up healthy and happy.
I never thought I could be so affected by one little life.
I was so glad I did not leave him there.
Half a month after finding Jiu Wan, the changes became visible.
Since deworming, he improved quickly. His appetite stabilized. His eyes and nose looked better. His energy increased. He was not afraid in the new environment. He was well-behaved and rarely made noise. When hungry, he came to my feet and looked up pitifully.
That sincere look was impossible to resist.
Sometimes, when I was busy, he came over quietly just to see me. Not demanding. Not loud. Just present. He would wander to my feet, lie on them, and stay there as if my feet were the safest place in the world.
I joked that he liked my fat feet.
But inside, I was touched every time.
For twenty days, Jiu Wan had been recovering, but thunder frightened him badly.
When thunder sounded, he trembled. If I touched him too suddenly, he startled. I had to approach slowly each time, stroking him gently, telling him not to be afraid. I did not know what noises he had heard on the street, what storms he had endured, what fear had already entered his little body before I met him.
These days, he finally recovered from the shock.
He began sticking to me again.
By the twentieth day, he had grown from 340 grams to 460 grams.
That number felt like a celebration.
Still tiny.
Still fragile.
But growing.
Every gram mattered.
I fed him food and water every day, wiped his face and bottom, balanced busy days with healing days, and watched him slowly get better. He gradually built a relationship with me, not because I forced affection but because I kept showing up.
Food.
Medicine.
Cleaning.
Warmth.
Voice.
Presence.
That is how trust grew.
On the twenty-eighth day, I realized Jiu Wan had become bolder and more casual at home.
This meant he had adapted to the environment. A frightened kitten hides. A healing kitten explores. A kitten who feels safe begins acting as if the home belongs to him.
Jiu Wan began walking around with confidence.
As he became healthier, his appearance improved significantly. His face looked cleaner. His eyes brighter. His fur better. But he did not only become cuter. He also showed intelligence, obedience, and understanding.
He slept well at night.
In the morning, he walked into my room and meowed at me.
He played hide-and-seek.
He stayed by my side while I worked.
I began thinking, I am really lucky.
Lucky that I saw him.
Lucky that I stopped.
Lucky that he ate that first day.
Lucky that he survived the cold body temperature, the infections, the vomiting, the parasites, the foot wound, and all the nights when I watched his breathing.
A few days later, Jiu Wan became my toilet companion.
Every time I went to the bathroom, he came over and squatted at my feet. At first, I thought he simply liked to stick to me. Then I read that cats have strong territorial instincts. Some people say cats believe they are protecting their human during vulnerable moments. They worry their owner will not properly bury scent, or that danger may come while the human is distracted.
Whether that explanation is fully true or not, I loved the idea.
My Jiu Wan came to protect me.
This tiny kitten I had once protected from the street now followed me as if guarding my life.
I loved him so much.
When Jiu Wan had been home for a month, his condition was stable.
Recently, I often could not find him at home. One day, I found him crawling into the closet, tucked away like he had discovered a secret kingdom. He truly did not consider himself an outsider anymore. He walked around the house every day, and when tired, he found a small corner to sleep.
Only the sound of shaking cat food could lure him out.
Now Jiu Wan was a clingy little guy.
I could hardly walk around the house without him appearing. Wherever I went, if I stayed there for a minute, he would appear at my feet. I became afraid I might accidentally step on him. Several times, I lifted my foot and was startled to find him underneath, nearly making myself fall.
I realized I also needed to adapt to life with Jiu Wan.
Not just him adapting to me.
That is what love does. It changes both sides.
Ever since Jiu Wan’s little nest had a countdown to the college entrance examination nearby, he often looked at the elementary school downstairs. I joked that he looked like he wanted to go to school.
Sure enough, education should start from childhood.
Jiu Wan was also a greedy little cat.
Even if he had just eaten, whenever he saw me eating, he came over and meowed. One morning, I was eating preserved egg and lean meat porridge. He walked to my feet again, looked up pitifully, and I gave him a small spoonful.
I did not expect him to eat it with such gusto.
He really appreciated my cooking skills.
Jiu Wan was a treasure given to me by heaven.
I hoped he would have a good appetite every day and grow quickly.
On the thirty-third day, Jiu Wan’s little toe could not be saved.
Before, we had been told his left leg was disabled, but recently I noticed a new problem with one of his toes. I took him back to the hospital. When the wound was cleaned the first time, the doctor told me Jiu Wan’s little toe had turned black. It was likely necrotic.
The doctor asked if I wanted to amputate it.
I did not.
I really did not want Jiu Wan to become a disabled kitten. He had already suffered so much. His leg was already weak. His foot had already been wounded. The thought of losing a toe felt unbearable, even though I knew it was small compared to saving his life.
I asked the doctor if we could wait.
The doctor said we could observe for a while. Maybe it might recover.
For a few days, I watched carefully, hoping. But then the exposed bone area became bigger and bigger. I brought him to see the doctor again. The doctor said the exposed skin and flesh had atrophied. It was not getting enough blood. It seemed necrotic and had to be amputated, otherwise it could affect the other toes.
I was afraid Jiu Wan would hurt.
I asked for anesthesia.
The doctor said the toe was already necrotic and had no feeling.
Then they took scissors and cut it off.
The wound barely bled.
Jiu Wan did not react.
It seemed like he really felt no pain.
But when I looked at his little foot, now missing a toe, my heart still hurt terribly.
After he came home, I held him in my arms for a long time. He lay there obediently like a child who had been wronged. I knew he might not understand exactly what was missing, but I understood. This was part of him.
So I brought the little toe back.
I made it into a specimen.
It may sound strange to some people, but to me, that toe belonged to Jiu Wan. It was a part of him, a piece of his suffering and his survival. I wanted to keep it for him.
Although he was missing a toe, it did not affect his running and jumping.
When I saw him happy again, I finally felt relieved.
Sometimes, there are things that have already rotted. If they are not removed in time, they only cause repeated infection. That morning, I had been ruthless enough to let the dead part go so the wound could heal.
Life can be like that too.
Some pain has to be cleaned away, even when it hurts to look at.
The wound would slowly heal.
Life would begin again.
By forty days after finding Jiu Wan, he could finally be considered cured.
He had experienced eye and nose infections, foot trauma, gastroenteritis, parasites, constipation, vomiting, frightening temperature drops, and the loss of a toe. But now he was a healthy and happy kitten.
Recently, I noticed he guarded food a little.
He ate very fast, sometimes voraciously, licking the plate clean each time. I understood why. He had once been homeless. He may never have had a full meal on the street. Protecting food had become instinct.
I did not scold him for it.
Slowly, he would learn.
He did not need to protect food anymore.
He would not be hungry again.
As Jiu Wan’s foot got better, his space for movement became larger. He could jump directly from the stool to the sofa. He would run to me and lie on me, warm and soft. When I finished cooking, he would lie on the table, greedy and curious, watching as if every meal might include him.
On the forty-fifth day, as soon as I stopped working, I went back to play with Jiu Wan.
He played too, trying to pull my hand away, then following me to the bed. Sometimes he startled me by suddenly jumping on me. In the morning, I turned over and saw him beside me.
That feeling was pure happiness.
I did not know where Jiu Wan learned his stretching posture. He stretched and covered his face, so cute that I could hardly stand it.
Almost two months after his rescue, Jiu Wan became more and more clingy.
He almost never left my side. He had to lie somewhere people could see him. He used to sleep in his nest, but after I returned from a business trip, he started sleeping on the bed.
Originally, he needed a small stool to jump onto the bed. One night, there was no stool beside the bed. I watched him run out the door, give himself a little run-up, and jump onto the bed by himself.
People really change.
So do cats.
I used to be unable to accept a kitten getting on the bed. I was sensitive to animal hair and always felt itchy. Now, I did not mind anymore. It was unexpected, but love had quietly rewritten my rules.
Jiu Wan’s clinginess, however, was one-way.
He could cling to me whenever he wanted.
But if I touched him when he did not approve, he might bite me.
One day, he bit me a little and I bled slightly. I even got vaccinated because of it. A kitten that makes people love and hate him—what could I do?
Of course I forgave him.
On the sixty-sixth day, Jiu Wan’s foot injury finally healed.
That injury had taken the longest time. It had been damaged to the point where skin and flesh were separated. New skin and flesh needed time to grow. It was not a matter of one or two days.
The doctor had said if the hair follicles were damaged, his foot might never grow fur again. Fortunately, the injury was not that deep. Now it had recovered into a furry little foot.
Although Jiu Wan lost a toe, it did not affect his activities. He ran around the house every day. It proved the injury was not a big deal for his current life. Although healed, the pad of that foot still looked a little deformed, as if someone had stepped on it.
I could not imagine how much pain he had been in.
I hoped it had not been intentional.
More than two months after finding him, I saw that his body had recovered enough and began thinking about bathing him.
Jiu Wan was truly a treasure kitten. He always brought surprises. Although I knew he liked being clean, I worried he would resist a bath. I never expected that he would actually enjoy it.
While I filled the bathtub with water, Jiu Wan strolled around the room leisurely. He was happy to play hide-and-seek with me, with no idea he was about to experience the first bath of his cat life.
I gently placed him in the water.
At first, I could feel he was a little scared. Then, after entering the bathtub, Jiu Wan drank some bath water.
The temperature was just right.
Apparently, the kitten tea I made myself was delicious.
He quickly got used to it and began exploring in the bathtub, looking comfortable. I slowly poured water over him until he was soaked. Only then did I realize Jiu Wan had grown quite plump—not just chubby, but sturdy.
The temptation of a kitten’s first bath was impossible to resist. Since he seemed to enjoy it so much, I let him enjoy it longer. I brought his food bowl over.
He ate while bathing.
When the rice bowl floated up, I suddenly realized this was not just a bath.
This was Jiu Wan’s internet-famous floating afternoon tea.
He enjoyed his afternoon tea leisurely like a little prince.
After he finished eating, it was time for shower gel. I chose a low-foam kind, easier to rinse. As I applied it, his fur became slippery and fragrant. I wanted to hold him and kiss him, but I focused on rinsing carefully.
After washing him, I wrapped him in a towel.
To reward him for being so good, I quickly fed him cat food. He ate so deliciously that I guessed he had fallen in love with bathing.
After drying him, his fur became delicate, fluffy, and shiny.
The stinky sock had become a fragrant sock.
We played together in bed.
I realized happiness could be that simple.
After bathing and eating, we lay in bed and watched TV together. Jiu Wan liked watching Crayon Shin-chan the most. Every time he watched it, he seemed happy, bouncing on the bed. He looked at the TV for a while, then looked at me.
The scene was so warm.
In the third month, Jiu Wan went to get vaccinated.
He had finally grown to over three jin. It was time. He was a smart little guy now. He knew that every time I took out the carrier, it meant going outside, so he became alert immediately. After a battle of wits and courage, we arrived at the hospital.
The doctor did not recognize him at first.
“He gained a lot of weight,” the doctor said.
I felt proud.
Jiu Wan was scared when going out and even more scared when getting the injection. He kept trying to hide. The doctor had to hold him in his arms to give the shot. Fortunately, it did not hurt much. Afterward, we had to observe him for half an hour.
He stayed in my arms.
When he heard a puppy barking nearby, he burrowed into my hair, making himself messy and funny. The doctor said he might have poor appetite in the next few days, feel lethargic, and be less active.
But by evening, Jiu Wan was ravenous.
He ate a lot of cat food and canned food.
No poor appetite at all.
At three months old, Jiu Wan learned to burrow under the covers.
One night, I felt something nibbling my foot. I got up and discovered the little troublemaker had crawled under the blanket. I was too sleepy and had to get up early for work, so I put him outside the bedroom.
In the morning, I wanted to feed him and could not find him anywhere.
After searching, I found him curled behind the air conditioner.
When I saw his eyes, guilt hit me immediately.
He usually slept on the bed. Last night, alone in the living room, he must have felt insecure and hidden in that little corner.
To make it up to him, I decided to give him a better meal.
Steamed mackerel.
Beef brisket with tomatoes.
Goose egg.
Ribs.
Grilled salmon.
Seeing him eat so happily, I felt he must have forgiven me.
That night, I kept waiting for him to come into the bedroom, worried he remembered being locked out. He had not come by the time I fell asleep. But when I woke up, I found him lying on my pillow, sleeping soundly.
Seeing him peaceful, I finally relaxed.
Maybe I was being too sensitive.
But I really wanted him to be happy.
Because to me, he was never just a cat.
He was a treasure I had saved from d3ath.
Shedding fur did not matter.
Being playful did not matter.
Germs did not matter.
As long as he was healthy and happy, everything else became small.
He was a sweet part of my life, an antidote to the trivial frustrations of ordinary days. I only wanted him to stay with me longer.
And sometimes, when he lay on my pillow with his little body warm beside my face, I thought back to the street where people had walked past him without stopping.
That version of Jiu Wan felt both far away and close enough to hurt.
The kitten with sealed eyes.
The motionless body.
The fear that he would not survive.
The first hospital.
The refunded train ticket.
The ride-share to Nanjing.
The morning he could not lift his head.
The doctor asking if I still wanted to save him.
The infusion.
The vomiting.
The worms.
The festering foot.
The toe that could not be saved.
The nights I watched his breathing.
All of it lived under the soft, spoiled, warm kitten who now slept on my pillow like he owned the world.
Maybe he did own it.
At least my little part of it.
I once said I did not like cats.
Now, I planned meals for one.
I wiped his face and bottom.
I kept his lost toe as a specimen because I could not bear to throw away a part of him.
I let him sleep on my bed even though I used to worry about fur.
I watched cartoons because he liked them.
I apologized to him for one night outside the bedroom.
I learned that love can arrive disguised as inconvenience, fear, hospital bills, and sleepless nights.
And if you do not walk away, it becomes something warmer than anything you planned.
Jiu Wan grew stronger every week.
He became greedy, clever, clingy, playful, dramatic, and bold. He followed me into the bathroom like a tiny bodyguard. He crawled into closets. He meowed at my feet. He stole my attention during work. He ran across the bed. He bit me when he disliked being touched. He watched television. He accepted baths like luxury. He ate as if every meal was a celebration.
He was not the helpless kitten on the street anymore.
He was Jiu Wan.
A survivor.
A troublemaker.
A soft little shadow at my feet.
A cat who taught someone who did not like cats that sometimes the life you never wanted becomes the one you cannot imagine losing.
And every time he looked at me with those clear eyes that once could barely open, I felt the same quiet gratitude.
I stopped.
That was all I did at first.
I stopped when everyone else kept walking.
And because of that one moment, Jiu Wan got the chance to grow into the treasure he had always been.
But the truth is, stopping was only the beginning.
After Jiu Wan became healthy enough to run, jump, eat, bite, hide, demand attention, and sleep on my pillow like a spoiled little prince, I thought the hardest part of our story was behind us. I thought survival was the mountain, and once we climbed it, everything afterward would be easy.
But loving a life that nearly disappeared from the world is never simple.
Even when he was safe, I still carried the memory of almost losing him.
Sometimes, in the middle of an ordinary day, I would suddenly look at him too carefully. He might be lying in the sun, belly rising and falling peacefully, one paw tucked under his chin, the missing toe hidden beneath soft fur. Everything would be normal. Perfectly normal. But my mind would jump back to the hospital ward, to the morning his temperature dropped below 35 degrees, to the way I had leaned close just to check whether he was still breathing.
Then I would call his name.
“Jiu Wan.”
His ears would twitch.
He would open one eye, annoyed that I had interrupted a very important nap.
And I would breathe again.
He never knew how often he rescued me from my own fear.
As the months went on, Jiu Wan became more confident in ways that made the house feel like it belonged to him and I was simply allowed to live there. He explored every cabinet he could squeeze into. He climbed onto chairs, then tables, then windowsills. He learned which drawers made interesting sounds, which bags might contain snacks, and which blankets were soft enough to deserve his approval.
His favorite place became my desk.
Not beside it.
On it.
At first, he sat near my keyboard, watching my hands move. Then he began placing one paw on the keys, as if contributing to my work. Then he discovered that lying directly across the keyboard was the fastest way to receive attention.
“Jiu Wan, I’m working,” I told him.
He blinked slowly.
Then he stretched his body even longer across the keyboard.
To him, work was clearly less important than a cat who had survived six hospitals and now required admiration.
Sometimes I gently moved him aside, and he immediately returned. Other times, I gave up and worked around him. I used one hand to type while the other rested on his back. He purred softly, eyes half closed, acting as if this had been his plan all along.
Maybe it was.
He had become very clever at getting what he wanted.
When he was hungry, he no longer simply looked pitiful at my feet. He upgraded his methods. First, he meowed softly. If I ignored him, he walked across my path. If I still ignored him, he stood near the food area and stared at me with deep disappointment. If all else failed, he came to my feet and placed one tiny paw on me.
That paw always won.
I knew I should not give in every time. He had become healthier, and I had to watch his weight. The kitten who once weighed only 340 grams had turned into a sturdy little cat with a very serious appetite. But after seeing him so thin that every bone seemed close to the surface, it was hard not to feel grateful when he wanted food.
Still, I learned balance.
A loved cat cannot be fed only by emotion.
So I measured his meals, chose better food, prepared occasional treats, and reminded myself that keeping him healthy was another form of love.
Jiu Wan disagreed with portion control.
He considered it a personal betrayal.
After meals, he often licked the plate so thoroughly it looked washed. Then he looked up at me as if to say, Surely that was only the first course.
“No,” I would say. “You already ate.”
He meowed.
“No.”
He sat down.
“No.”
He leaned his head slightly, making his eyes bigger.
I looked away because I was weak.
He learned that too.
The more comfortable he became, the more his personality unfolded. He was clingy, but only on his terms. He could crawl onto my lap and sleep there for an hour, warm and heavy with trust. But if I touched his belly without permission, he grabbed my hand with both paws and delivered a warning bite. Not a serious one most of the time, just enough to remind me that love did not cancel his boundaries.
That was Jiu Wan.
Soft and sharp.
Dependent and independent.
A treasure and a troublemaker.
He followed me into the bathroom like a guard, slept on my pillow like a child, attacked my hand like a tiny warrior, and meowed at my food like a starving actor performing for an audience.
I used to wonder how a kitten so sick could have so much spirit.
Now I understood.
His spirit had probably always been there. Illness had only hidden it.
Once his body stopped fighting so hard to survive, his true self came rushing out.
One morning, I woke up because something soft was tapping my face.
I opened my eyes slowly.
Jiu Wan was sitting beside my pillow, looking at me with complete seriousness. His paw lifted again and touched my cheek.
Tap.
“Jiu Wan,” I mumbled, “what are you doing?”
He meowed.
I checked the time. It was still early.
Too early.
I closed my eyes again.
Tap.
This time on my nose.
I opened one eye. “Are you hungry?”
He meowed louder.
Of course.
I got up, half asleep, and he jumped off the bed immediately, trotting ahead of me with his tail high. His little foot, the one that had lost a toe, moved just fine now. Sometimes I watched him run and felt amazed all over again. The pad was still a little deformed, and the missing toe made his foot look uneven if you knew where to look, but he did not care.
He ran like a cat who had places to be.
Food places, mostly.
That morning, as I filled his bowl, I remembered the doctor cutting away the necrotic toe. I remembered holding him afterward, feeling terrible even though he had not reacted in pain. I remembered thinking he looked like a child who had been wronged.
Now he stood below me, impatient and healthy, yelling because breakfast was not arriving fast enough.
Life had answered that old sadness in the funniest way possible.
I placed the bowl down.
He attacked breakfast with his usual devotion.
“Slow down,” I told him.
He ignored me.
Jiu Wan was excellent at ignoring advice he did not like.
His foot continued improving. The fur grew back more beautifully than I expected. Sometimes, when he slept, I gently touched the healed area. It no longer looked shocking. It looked like part of him. A little different, yes. But not broken. Not ugly. Not something to mourn every day.
That took me longer to learn than it took him.
Animals adapt without the endless emotional commentary humans add to everything. Jiu Wan did not wake up thinking about the toe he lost. He woke up thinking about breakfast, play, warmth, and whether my feet were available as a pillow.
He moved forward.
I tried to follow his example.
One day, while cleaning, I found the little specimen I had made from his toe. I had kept it carefully, tucked away like a strange and sacred memory. I held it for a while and felt the same mix of sadness and gratitude.
Sadness for what his tiny body endured.
Gratitude that losing that small part helped save the rest of him.
Some people might not understand why I kept it. Maybe they would think it was strange. But to me, it was proof. Proof of the fight. Proof of the decision. Proof that love sometimes means allowing something damaged to be removed so healing can begin.
I put it back gently.
Then Jiu Wan jumped onto the table and tried to investigate what I was holding.
“No,” I said quickly. “This is yours, but not for playing.”
He looked offended.
Then he knocked a pen off the table instead.
That was also healing.
After the third month, Jiu Wan’s world grew bigger.
At first, I had kept his life small because his body was too fragile. Hotel room. Hospital. Box. Cage. Bed. Desk. Safe corners. Controlled spaces. Everything was about protection. But now that he was stronger, I let him explore more of the home.
He discovered the windows.
That changed everything.
The first time he sat by the window and watched the world outside, he stayed there for nearly an hour. His tail flicked whenever a bird passed. His ears turned toward distant sounds. Children downstairs, bicycles, footsteps, dogs barking, wind moving through trees—all of it seemed to fascinate him.
I watched him watching the world.
He had once sat on a street unable to see properly, eyes sealed shut, too sick to move away from danger. Now he sat safely behind glass, bright-eyed, observing the same kind of world without being at its mercy.
That difference felt enormous.
Outside was no longer where he had been abandoned to fate.
Outside was something he could study from safety.
Sometimes he placed one paw against the window.
I wondered what he thought.
Did he remember the street?
Did the sounds of people walking past stir anything in him?
Did he know he had once been out there?
Or was the past gone from him in the merciful way animals sometimes seem to let go?
I hoped he had forgotten the worst parts.
I knew I had not.
Thunder still frightened him sometimes.
When storms came, he became alert before the loudest sounds began. His body lowered, and he searched for me. The first time after he had recovered, I heard thunder roll across the sky and saw him freeze in the hallway. His eyes widened. His tail dropped. He did not run wildly, but his whole body tightened.
I approached slowly, remembering how he had trembled before.
“It’s okay,” I said.
He looked at me but did not come.
So I sat on the floor a short distance away and waited.
After a while, he moved toward me cautiously.
Another rumble sounded.
He flinched.
I opened my hand but did not grab him.
He came closer.
Then closer.
Finally, he climbed onto my lap and tucked himself against me, smaller than he usually allowed himself to be.
I stroked his head.
“Not the street anymore,” I whispered. “You’re home.”
He stayed there until the storm passed.
After that, storms became our quiet routine. Thunder came, Jiu Wan looked for me, and I made space for him. Sometimes he hid under the blanket. Sometimes he went behind the air conditioner, the old hiding place from the night I locked him out. Sometimes he sat at my feet and pretended not to be scared.
I always let him choose.
Safety is not only a place.
It is being allowed to be afraid without being forced.
Jiu Wan taught me that too.
His love for Crayon Shin-chan continued.
I still did not fully understand it. Maybe he liked the movement. Maybe the voices. Maybe the colors. Maybe he liked that I sat still while it played, giving him a perfect opportunity to curl nearby.
Whatever the reason, when the show came on, he became attentive.
He sat on the bed, eyes fixed on the screen for a while, then turned to look at me as if checking whether I was watching properly. If I laughed, he looked at me. If I stopped paying attention, he sometimes touched my arm.
Apparently, I was not allowed to fail at shared entertainment.
One night, he sprawled beside me while the cartoon played. His fur smelled faintly clean from his bath days before. His body was warm. His breathing steady. I looked at him and remembered the kitten who had once sneezed through a runny nose, too sick to keep his eyes open.
Now he had favorite shows.
Favorite foods.
Favorite sleeping places.
Favorite ways to annoy me.
That is what survival becomes when it is given enough time.
Preference.
Personality.
Routine.
Joy.
At four months after rescue, I took him for another checkup.
This time, the hospital felt different.
I was nervous, of course. I always was. But I was not carrying the same desperation. Jiu Wan was stronger. He had weight on his body. His eyes were clear. His nose was no longer constantly running. His foot had healed. His appetite was almost too good. His energy filled the carrier with irritated movement.
He hated the carrier now.
That was another sign of health.
At first, he had been too weak to resist anything. Now getting him into the carrier required planning, timing, and sometimes negotiation. The moment he saw it, he became alert.
“You’re too smart,” I told him.
He hid behind the curtain.
I pretended not to see him.
He watched me through the fabric, his outline completely visible.
After a small battle, I got him into the carrier and took him to the hospital.
The doctor recognized him this time but still seemed surprised.
“He looks very different,” the doctor said.
“He eats well,” I replied.
That was an understatement.
They weighed him.
The number made me smile.
Every increase still felt like victory. He was no longer the skeleton-thin kitten who could not use many medicines because he was too tiny. He was growing into a real, solid, stubborn cat.
The doctor checked his foot and nodded.
Healing well.
His lungs sounded better.
Eyes better.
Nose better.
Overall condition stable.
Stable.
That word meant so much to me.
Not dramatic. Not miraculous on its own. But after weeks of crisis, stable sounded like music.
On the way home, Jiu Wan complained from inside the carrier.
I let him complain.
A cat with enough strength to complain is a blessing.
Back home, he forgave me after a good meal.
He was practical like that.
Food repaired many offenses.
As Jiu Wan grew, I started thinking about the version of myself from before I found him.
The person who said, “I don’t like cats.”
The person who was afraid to touch a tiny sick kitten.
The person who planned to take a high-speed train and continue with life as scheduled.
That person felt both familiar and far away.
I did not become a cat expert overnight. I learned through fear, mistakes, hospitals, medicine schedules, online searches, doctor instructions, and sleepless nights. I learned how to give drops, how to wipe discharge, how to monitor diarrhea, how to recognize appetite changes, how to clean wounds, how to hold a kitten gently but firmly when necessary, how to forgive bites, how to live with fur.
Most of all, I learned that love often arrives before confidence.
You do not always feel ready.
You just decide not to walk away.
Readiness comes later, built by doing.
Jiu Wan did not need me to be perfect that first day.
He needed me to stop.
Everything else, we learned together.
His clinginess became stronger after my business trips.
Whenever I returned from being away, he acted different for a few days. More attached. More determined to sleep near me. More likely to follow me from room to room. I realized absences affected him deeply, even when someone else cared for him properly.
Maybe he remembered being left.
Maybe not.
But his response told me he needed reassurance.
So after trips, I gave him extra time. I let him sleep closer. I worked with him on the desk if he insisted. I spoke to him more, played more, gave him warm meals, and waited for his little heart to settle.
One time, after I returned, he refused to leave my bed for hours. He lay against my side, one paw resting on my arm. If I shifted, he opened his eyes immediately.
“I’m here,” I told him.
He blinked.
“I came back.”
He tucked his head down and slept again.
That moment made me understand how deeply animals notice patterns. They may not understand calendars or travel, but they understand absence. They understand return. They understand the feeling of being left in a room and the relief of hearing the familiar footsteps again.
I wanted Jiu Wan to have so many returns that absence would never again feel like abandonment.
So I kept coming back.
When I worked late, he waited.
When I showered, he waited outside.
When I cooked, he supervised.
When I went to the bathroom, he protected me.
When I slept, he occupied the pillow like a landlord collecting rent.
My life adjusted around him in ways I never expected.
I bought lint rollers.
Then more lint rollers.
I changed bedding more often.
I learned which fabrics collected less hair.
I accepted that black clothes were no longer safe from his fur.
I stopped leaving food unattended.
I checked chairs before sitting.
I learned to walk carefully because Jiu Wan could appear underfoot without warning.
I kept medicine records.
I kept vet receipts.
I kept photos of every stage, from the road to the hospital to the first bath to the first time he jumped onto the bed without help.
My phone filled with him.
Sleeping Jiu Wan.
Eating Jiu Wan.
Angry Jiu Wan.
Bathing Jiu Wan.
Pillow Jiu Wan.
Desk Jiu Wan.
Closet Jiu Wan.
Cartoon-watching Jiu Wan.
Every photo felt like proof that he was still here.
At five months, he became more playful in a confident, sometimes terrifying way.
He developed sudden running episodes at night. One moment the room was quiet. The next, Jiu Wan launched himself across the floor as if chased by invisible spirits. He jumped onto the sofa, bounced off, ran under the table, attacked a toy, then stopped abruptly and looked around as if he had no idea who had caused the chaos.
I called these his victory laps.
Maybe every healthy cat does this.
But with Jiu Wan, it felt special.
A kitten who once could barely lift his head now ran so fast that I could not catch him.
A kitten whose foot had been festering now jumped from stool to sofa to bed.
A kitten once too weak to meow properly now filled the house with strange little sounds.
Every wild run said the same thing.
I lived.
I am still living.
Watch me.
I watched.
Happily.
Even when he knocked something over.
His relationship with food continued to evolve. He still ate quickly, but less desperately than before. Sometimes he even left a tiny bit in the bowl and returned later, which felt like a major emotional milestone. A cat who can leave food unfinished believes food will still exist later.
The first time he did that, I stared at the bowl.
“Jiu Wan,” I said, “are you saving some?”
He ignored me and groomed his paw.
I nearly cried over three pieces of cat food.
That is what rescue does to you.
It makes ordinary behavior feel sacred.
Later, he returned and ate the remaining pieces.
Still, I counted it as progress.
He also became more selective. The kitten who once ate whatever he could now had opinions. He liked certain textures more. He preferred some flavors. He enjoyed cooked fish, tolerated some cat food, loved special treats, and considered my meals fair targets for negotiation.
I should have been annoyed.
Instead, I felt proud.
A stray animal becoming picky is a sign that survival panic is fading.
Of course, I still did not let him eat everything he wanted.
He considered this unfair.
But he was healthy enough to complain.
That was enough.
By six months, Jiu Wan’s coat had changed dramatically. It was fuller, softer, and shinier. Bathing, nutrition, and health had transformed him. The “stinky sock” version had become a fluffy, fragrant little prince who still occasionally behaved like a dirty street gremlin when exploring corners.
His eyes, once sealed and infected, were clear.
His nose, once runny and blocked, was normal most days.
His foot, once shocking to look at, was covered in fur.
His belly, once sick from parasites and weakness, had become round in a normal, healthy way.
People who saw him now could hardly believe the early photos.
Some said, “He doesn’t look like the same cat.”
But he was.
That was the miracle.
Not that he became unrecognizable, but that the same little life had been given enough care to reveal what illness had hidden.
He had always been beautiful.
He had just needed the chance to survive long enough for others to see it.
One evening, I opened the old album on my phone and looked through the first photos.
The street.
The closed eyes.
The hotel box.
The hospital ward.
The infusion.
The swollen foot.
The tiny body curled in the corner.
I felt my throat tighten.
Jiu Wan jumped onto the bed beside me and stepped directly on the phone.
The screen changed.
The sadness broke.
“Excuse me,” I said.
He sat on my chest.
Apparently, memories were less important than his current need to be on top of me.
Maybe he was right.
The past matters.
But the living cat in front of me matters more.
I put the phone down and held him.
He allowed it for about ten seconds before biting my sleeve.
That was also Jiu Wan.
Tenderness with teeth.
As he grew, I began to wonder what kind of adult cat he would become.
Would he stay clingy?
Would he become more independent?
Would his old foot injury cause problems later?
Would his missing toe affect him as he aged?
Would his weak immune system from kittenhood leave any long-term issues?
I did not know.
The future of a rescued animal always carries questions. You can give care, but you cannot guarantee everything. You can heal wounds, but you cannot erase history. You can protect them now, but you cannot fully control what the body remembers.
So I promised myself to pay attention.
Not obsessively, though I sometimes failed at that.
But faithfully.
If his appetite changed, I would notice.
If his foot bothered him, I would notice.
If he hid too much, I would notice.
If he coughed, sneezed, limped, or lost energy, I would not ignore it.
Jiu Wan had survived because someone finally noticed him.
I would never stop noticing.
At night, when he curled beside me, I sometimes told him stories about himself.
“You were so small,” I would say.
He would purr.
“You scared me so much.”
He would stretch.
“You made me refund a train ticket.”
He would open one eye, unimpressed.
“You cost me money.”
He would bite the blanket.
“You were worth it.”
At that, he usually settled.
Not because he understood.
Because my voice was calm.
That was enough.
By then, I no longer thought of him as a cat I rescued.
He was family.
A strange, greedy, clingy, sharp-toothed, cartoon-loving, bath-enjoying, pillow-stealing family member.
And I had changed with him.
I used to think love was something you offered when it was convenient, when you felt ready, when the situation fit into your life. Jiu Wan taught me that sometimes love arrives in the most inconvenient form possible: a sick kitten on a street when you have a train to catch, no experience, no plan, and every reason to keep walking.
If you stop, your life changes.
Not easily.
Not cleanly.
But deeply.
There were days I was tired.
Days I felt overwhelmed.
Days I worried I was doing something wrong.
Days I cried in hospital waiting rooms.
Days I cleaned messes I never imagined cleaning.
Days I held medicine in one hand and a stubborn kitten in the other, wondering how this had become my life.
And then there were mornings when I woke up and found him sleeping on my pillow, breathing softly, one little paw near my face.
Those mornings answered everything.
Yes, this was my life now.
And I was grateful.
One day, much later, I walked past a street corner and saw people moving quickly, heads down, focused on their own destinations. For a moment, I remembered the day I found Jiu Wan. How easy it would have been to be one of them. To keep going. To assume someone else would help. To tell myself I did not like cats, did not know what to do, did not have time.
All of those things had been true.
And yet none of them mattered more than his life.
I went home that day and found Jiu Wan in the closet again, curled inside like a little secret.
I shook the food.
He came out immediately.
Of course he did.
He trotted toward me, tail high, eyes clear, body healthy, missing toe hidden beneath fur, every step a small victory I would never take for granted.
I picked up his bowl.
He meowed.
“Impatient,” I said.
He meowed louder.
I laughed and fed him.
While he ate, I watched the little life everyone had ignored on the roadside become exactly what he was meant to become: not a tragedy, not a burden, not a helpless creature fading alone, but a living, demanding, beautiful soul with a place in the world.
His place.
Beside my feet.
On my desk.
In my bed.
At my bathroom door.
In front of the TV.
Inside my heart.
And if one day someone asks me why I changed so much for a kitten I never planned to keep, I think I will tell them the truth.
Because he looked like he had no one.
Because everyone else walked past.
Because his body was still warm.
Because he ate when they fed him.
Because he fought through every night.
Because he became Jiu Wan.
And because sometimes the life you stop for on the side of the road becomes the one that teaches you how to stay
