I'm sorry I couldn't say "I love you"—the lingering regret for a calico cat I "just owned."

Was that girl happy living with our family...? I have days spent with a cat that I look back on with regret. When I was in elementary school, my family home had a calico cat named "Mikeko."

At the time, I wasn't much of a cat person. Looking back, there are so many things I didn't do for Mikeko and so much care I should have provided, that even now, whenever I face a calico cat, my heart aches.

Mikeko, who followed my grandmother home

First, a note: I don't have any photos of Mikeko on hand, so the photos in this article are of the cats that have lived in my family home over the years. However, Mikeko was the most beautiful of beautiful cats, so please imagine a stunningly gorgeous calico cat as you read my story about her.

Ever since I was old enough to remember, there were cats in my family home. There was a mysterious cycle where as soon as one passed away, another would show up, so there was almost never a time when we were without a cat.

Mikeko was a former stray. When she was a kitten, she came to our house along with another calico kitten (presumably her sister). I remember hearing that she had followed my grandmother home as she was riding her bicycle back from somewhere.

At the time, there was a rule in my family that we could only keep one cat. After feeding both of them, my grandmother took the sister kitten to a nearby shrine and left her there. When I came home from school and realized there was only one kitten left, I was deeply shocked, even as a child.

I felt heart-stricken wondering how the sister cat who wasn't chosen must have felt, and I worried that even though Mikeko was chosen, she might be lonely.

My only way to show love was a clumsy attempt to throw stones

Back then, keeping cats outdoors was the norm. It was a style of care that felt more like "owning" rather than "living together." Though Mikeko was young, she had a fierce spirit and would sometimes threaten our family.

"Her mother was probably a stray too, and she was taught that humans are scary," my mother told me. I thought, "Her mother cat must have had many frightening experiences. If so, it's only natural for Mikeko to be afraid of humans. I should be kind to her."

As is common with cats who know the outside world, Mikeko reacted sensitively to even the slightest noise. As a small child, I somehow wanted to soothe her anxiety, even if just a little.

However, seeing my father and grandmother get bitten when they tried to touch her, I was afraid to touch her myself. So, whenever Mikeko seemed uneasy about her surroundings, I began throwing garden stones in the direction she was looking.

"Don't worry, I'll take care of whatever's scaring you." I kept throwing stones while saying things like that to Mikeko.

But that was the extent of the care I provided. Feeding her was my mother's job. I was too scared of being bitten to have any real physical affection, beyond occasionally giving her cheeks a light, cautious stroke.

She became a cat we were "just keeping"

In those days, knowledge about the inner lives of stray cats was not widespread. Before long, Mikeko became, for our family, "just a cat we were keeping."

Because she wasn't affectionate, she wasn't considered cute. She was just a cat that looked pretty. My grandmother and sister would sometimes say things like that. Every time I heard them, although I felt "poor thing," I was just a bystander—I didn't take the initiative to show her affection myself, nor could I muster the courage to warn my family, "It's not right to talk like that."

There was no way Mikeko would open her heart to someone like me. Yet, she didn't even get angry at a coward like me. Even though she was a cat who would bite or scratch so fiercely that she made family members bleed, she never attacked me once.

Perhaps it was because I was so afraid while I touched her, but I chose to believe it was Mikeko's kindness. Perhaps she felt the intention behind my throwing stones in the direction of her gaze whenever she was on guard.

Back then, I was powerless and weak, picking up garden stones one by one to throw them into the distance. Yet, at those times, Mikeko would always sit nearby and watch what I was doing.

Only in those moments did I feel as though our hearts were connected, and I felt happy. Mikeko was the cat who taught me that "there are moments when you can truly connect with a cat."

I don't want to forget my weak self who couldn't say "I love you"

Why couldn't I tell Mikeko that I loved her? That is my regret. Mikeko was not a cat who could be said to be loved by her family. Yet, I can't help but think that if only I had been able to say "I love you," Mikeko might have lived a little more happily.

Because of this guilt toward Mikeko, even now, whenever I touch a calico cat at a cat cafe or elsewhere, I feel a sense of tension I don't feel with other cats. The cat in front of me overlaps with Mikeko from those days, and I feel like I've regressed to my younger self who couldn't say "I'm sorry" or "I love you."

As times change, the recommended ways of keeping cats change. Correct knowledge regarding their care is also constantly being updated. As I learn that the way I treated that one life was wrong, the feeling of being unable to forgive myself grows.

Indeed, now that I am an adult and know the reasons behind the intense vigilance of stray cats, I reflect that I should have taken more time to be closer to Mikeko's wounded heart.

I can now understand the weight of the kindness Mikeko showed me. That is why I want to live my whole life carrying the memory of those days with her, without making excuses like "it was a different era." I believe that carrying the memories of a cat I couldn't make happy will ultimately lead to making the cat I love now happy.

If the day comes when I can meet Mikeko again, I want to give her all the petting she deserves. Now that being bitten or scratched by my own beloved cat feels like a reward, I feel I could accept a "cat punch" from Mikeko with a smile.

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