I always thought I knew what it meant to have a pet. I believed it was all about providing food and shelter. But I was wrong. Having a cat isn’t about ownership. It’s about being chosen.
My cat woke me up every morning, sometimes with a soft meow, other times with an impatient scratch. She was my natural alarm, my constant companion, and the silent observer of my life. In our home, she wasn’t just a pet—she was the heart of our little world.
For my father, however, she was a problem in the beginning. He was furious about the way she slinked around his feet while he had his dinner. But as with all things feline, she worked her magic. One day, I saw him sneaking her a piece of his meal. From then on, he refused to eat unless she had been fed first. It was a transformation only a cat could bring.
Every cat parent would agree that cats are independent and sophisticated creatures. They demand good food and a warm place to sleep. Yet, beneath their self-sufficient nature, what I noticed was that they always seek the depth of love. I remember my old cat “Dhadu” every now and then. He never allowed any other cat near our home—until the day he brought a tiny kitten, who looked much like him.
We watched in wonder as Dhadu let the kitten play with his tail, share his meals, and curl up beside him. It was clear—he had taken on the role of a father. That day, I realized something profound. Love and responsibility weren’t just the domains of mothers; fathers, even feline ones, had their quiet ways of nurturing.
Then one day, Dhadu disappeared. We waited, watching the alleyways, listening for his familiar call. But he never returned. It was as if he knew his time was up and had passed the responsibility to take care of our family to his son. We were devastated by his disappearance, but with the passing time, we found solace in Chotu, his little heir. Chotu grew into his father’s role, hunting mice nearly his size, watching over us with the same silent dedication. My mother would often worry if Chotu failed to visit us for a few days.
Time passes by, but the memories remain forever. Before Dhadu and Chotu, we had a girl cat. My girl cat, once my tiny baby who curled beside me at night, became a mother herself. I watched as she transformed overnight, no longer seeking comfort, resting. Her days were spent teaching her kittens how to hunt, how to survive, always vigilant, always fierce. Yet to me, she remained my little daughter, no matter how strong she had become.
After petting more than a dozen cats, I can surely say that cats have a way of teaching you things without ever speaking a word. They teach patience, love, and resilience. They teach you how to fight, how to endure, how to trust, and when to let go. They may not stay forever, but the love and lessons they leave behind lasts a lifetime.
And so, while people say that you own a cat, the truth is—you never really do.
They own you.
