The Cat Spirit

Old Zhou had kept his shoe-repair stall at the mouth of the town for twenty years. The stall was a small affair: an old wooden chair, a tin box of nails, a few awls hung on the wall. He was not much for talk. A customer would hand over a shoe, he would bend to mend it, hand it back, take the money, and the whole exchange passed with few words. The townsfolk said he was a silent man, but a silent man has his virtues--his repairs held.

His wife had passed the year the town was buried in a heavy snow. After that he lived alone. His daughter had married and moved away; at holidays she sent money, which he hardly spent, only saved.

On an autumn day a gray cat settled before his stall. It was small, its coat dull and dusty, as if it had gone unfed for days. Old Zhou glanced at it and did not shoo it away. The cat was not afraid. It simply crouched there and watched him work.

When he closed up at dusk, the cat followed. Old Zhou pedaled his bicycle home, and the cat trailed behind, neither near nor far. At the lane's end he looked back; the cat stood under the streetlamp, gave its tail a light flick, as if bidding him good night, then slipped into the grass by the wall.

The next day the cat returned. For seven or eight days running it came. Old Zhou's heart softened. Now and then he brought a steamed bun from home, broke off a piece and set it down; the cat would lower its head and eat. When it finished, it would wind around his legs twice, then crouch again.

As the days passed, Old Zhou felt this cat was unlike others. Other cats fled from people; this one pressed close. Other cats only begged for food; this one seemed to come to keep him company. Once a drunkard came to make trouble and kicked over his tin box. Old Zhou, being a silent man, did not know how to answer back. The cat suddenly arched its back and hissed at the drunkard, fur bristling, and the man actually stepped back half a pace. Old Zhou looked down; the cat had already relaxed, licking its paw as if nothing had happened.

After winter set in, Old Zhou caught a chill and stayed in bed three days. He did not set up his stall. On the fourth day he rose and opened the door, and there was the cat on the step, as if it had been waiting. Seeing him, it gave a soft mew--not begging, more like asking, "Are you well?" Old Zhou felt a warmth in his chest and crouched to stroke its head.

That winter was unusually cold. Old Zhou often coughed at night and would sit awake afterward, lost in thought. Once he heard a stir at the windowsill, got up to look, and found the gray cat lying there, its eyes bright in the dark. When it met his gaze it did not hide, only blinked slowly. Old Zhou thought the cat must have gained a spirit--the old folk said that with the years, cats and dogs could cultivate a little wisdom. He did not believe such things, yet the cat had truly lightened his heart.

In spring he moved his stall to the edge of the market, where there were more people. The cat moved with him and crouched before the stall as before. A vegetable-selling granny teased him: "Old Zhou, your cat's become a spirit, you can't drive it off." Old Zhou only smiled and said nothing.

In summer his daughter came to visit and brought a plump orange cat, saying she feared he was too lonely. Old Zhou kept the orange cat, but the gray one began to come less often. Sometimes it came, crouched a while, glanced at the orange cat, and left. Old Zhou felt a small unease he could not name.

When autumn deepened, the gray cat came for the last time. The day was fine. Old Zhou finished mending the last pair of shoes and looked up; the cat crouched in its old spot, quieter than usual. It watched him a long while, then slowly rose, stretched, and walked out along the lane without looking back.

Old Zhou sat, the awl resting in his hand. He did not follow. He knew some bonds are like this: they come when they come, and go when they go; no use holding on, and no holding them.

Afterward Old Zhou still set up his stall each day, the orange cat dozing beside him. Yet every deep autumn he would glance often toward the lane's mouth, as if still waiting for that dusty little shadow to amble slowly back.