They say we cats have nine lives. So in my first life, I thought I ruled the world.
First Life
I was born in a damp alleyway, surrounded by noisy cars and cats that fought for scraps. I feared nothing. I believed I could win anything. One day, I stood atop a trash can, staring down a tabby three times my size, tail raised like a waving flag. I won the fight. But in the next moment, a guard dog I had not noticed lunged at me. I didn't run in time. Its jaws closed around my neck.
Before the world faded, I remember thinking: dogs have no sense of honor.
Second Life
I woke up in a mansion with plush carpets and automatic feeders. A rich man had adopted me. He was handsome, always dressed sharply with his phone glued to his hand as he swiped through work emails. I thought I had found safety, but he was always away, business trips, meetings with firms. Oftentimes, he didn't even come home. One time, he left the country for weeks. The maid forgot me. I starved to death on a velvet sofa surrounded by pictures of still life fruits and Italian valleys.
Oh, the irony.
Third Life
This time, I chose freedom. I no longer trusted humans. I became a stray, running along train tracks, leaping through abandoned warehouses, howling under the moonlight. I met a white cat. We traveled together, chasing wind and naming stars. I thought it would last forever.
Then she got sick. One night, she died in my arms. I ran across the city to find help. But while crossing a road, a car came—
And that was the end.
In my dreams, I heard her whisper: "You can still trust people."
Fourth Life
I decided to try again. I walked into a pet shop window and curled up into a cute ball. A girl took me home. She gave me baths, bows, and entered me in shows. I became a "show cat," posing for hundreds of photos.
But I hated the glittering ribbons. I hated the glass boxes. I hated the blinding lights from the cameras. Once after a show, I attempted to escape. I wanted the wind again. But I fell into a sewer drain and drowned.
I swear I heard the wind crying for me.
Fifth Life
This time, I avoided cities. I lived in the forest. I became its king. Rabbits feared me. Birds respected me. I lived like a god—alone.
Then winter came. No fire, no fish. Just snow and silence. I curled up in a hole and died alone.
I began to wonder if having nine lives was a curse.
Sixth Life
A little boy found me and named me "Bobo." We played tag and hide-and-seek. He whispered secrets to me and snuck me Goldfish crackers. I thought maybe, just maybe, this life would last.
Then his mother got pregnant and became allergic to fur. They sent me away to a distinct cousin.
The new family didn't like me. One winter night, they locked me on the balcony because I broke a vase. I froze to death.
If the boy knew, I think he would've cried.
Seventh Life
I awoke in a cage. People in white coats poked me with needles and scribbled notes. They said I was "valuable." Day by day, I lost my sense of smell, taste, even sight itself.
On my final injection, everything went dark. Before I slipped away, I wished I had never left that little boy.
Eighth Life
This time, I was picked up by a young couple in the city. They were newlyweds, full of laughter and hope. They called me "Miso." They said I was their "practice baby," and I curled up in their laundry basket like it was my throne.
At first, it was perfect. Warm beds, late-night cuddles, treats for no reason. They took pictures of me, posted them online with silly captions.
Then the woman got pregnant.
Suddenly, everything changed. They stopped letting me on the bed. She complained about the strands of fur I left behind. He said I was "too needy." One day, they packed my things in a cardboard box and drove me far away.
They left me outside a shelter that had already closed for the day. I chased after the car until my paws bled, but it didn't stop.
I waited outside for three days.
Hungry. Cold. Confused. On the fourth night, I crawled under a bench in the pouring rain and never woke up.
In that last moment, I didn't hate them. I just wished I had mattered a little longer.
Ninth Life
I thought the ninth time would be hell. But instead, I heard a pot bubbling and felt the warmth of a fire.
"Oh dear, you're awake," a voice said. A frail old lady smiled and stroked my fur. She had many lines on her face, but a kind smile. "You poor thing. So skinny."
She lived in a tiny, leaky cottage with no air conditioner and could barely pay the bills that piled up every month. But every day she always filled up a bowl of milk for me. We liked to sit on her worn sofa and watch TV together. Soap operas, romances, historical re-enactments, it didn’t matter. Sometimes she would chuckle and would mutter, "You're the best company I've had."
For the first time, I didn't want to run. I didn't want to fight. I didn't want to hide. I rubbed against her leg when I wanted attention. I chased out the mice living in the holes of her house. I learned to stay when she cried. To listen to stories from her youth. To love with no fear.
I knew this was my final life. So I lived it fully.
One day, the old lady laid down on her comforter and never woke up. I stayed by her side until the medics with white cloaks and blue scrubs took her away. No one ever came back.
I sat in the doorway, bathing in the sunlight, licking my paw, eyes closed.
"Nine lives are enough," I thought. "But if I could choose again, I'd still want to meet her."