Amy, the Boy with a Girl’s Name

It was a cold winter when I first met Amy—a boy cat with a girl’s name. “Amy” means beloved, but he didn’t look loved at all. He was curled up in a small cage, shivering, his gray fur matted and stiff with dirt. The tip of his tail was broken, crusted with dried blood, and he bared his teeth when I leaned closer, a low hiss vibrating from his throat. The man selling him said he was “too naughty” and “liked to break things,” as if that excused the wounds.

I had never kept a pet before. I’d just come from a small fishing town and was renting a single basement room in this big city. My days were long and loud, my evenings empty. Maybe it was time for someone to be waiting for me—someone small, warm, and alive.

I hesitated, feeling the scratch of his tail against my fingers, wondering if I could handle him—or if I’d just end up resenting this furious little creature I was about to bring home. Still, the cage was small, my room bigger, warmer. Maybe that would be enough—for both of us.

On his first day in my home, he explored every corner with cautious curiosity. Then, without hesitation, he jumped into a drawer full of my clean clothes and crouched down like it was his kingdom. I froze for a moment, half-amused, half-horrified—this was my space, and yet somehow, it already belonged to him.

At first, he was just a blur in the corner—always alert, always watching. When I moved, he froze. When I spoke, his ears twitched. I learned to slow my steps, crouch low, and speak gently. Little by little, he began to relax. I could see it in the way his ears no longer twitched at every sound, in the soft brushing of his fur against my hand when I reached out. Each small trust felt like a victory.

After our first battle in the shower, I looked down at him and saw his fur was white and soft, like a small cloud that had drifted down from the sky. For a moment, the wild, angry blur of a cat I had wrestled vanished, replaced by something fragile and entirely lovable.

He never wanted to go outside. Whenever I tried, he cried and dug his claws deep into my skin, and I stopped trying. Instead, he sat by the window every day, staring out at the world. The sunlight made his fur glow as he followed the birds with his eyes—calm, yet never brave enough to step beyond the glass. I couldn’t help but feel a quiet ache, wishing he could see the world beyond, yet also wanting him safe inside.

Then one day, a black-and-white crow began to visit. It would land on the window sill, and the two of them would face each other—my cat meowing softly, the crow cawing in reply. I never knew what they were saying, but in their quiet, strange companionship, I saw a glimmer of trust, curiosity, and maybe even joy—things Amy had never shown me before.

Coming home was never quiet anymore. Sometimes I found a scratched sofa, a bitten cable, or a shirt covered in tiny teeth marks. I’d sigh, ready to scold him—then he’d look up at me, eyes wide, full of guilt and softness. And just like that, every frustration melted away; I couldn’t stay angry, not at him, not ever.

He grew bolder over time. When I worked late, he’d climb onto my desk, stretch out right across my keyboard, and stare at me until I gave up. I’d scratch his chin, and he’d close his eyes, purring softly — that tiny sound somehow filled the whole room with peace.

I still remember the first time he got sick. After his surgery, he was sleepy and weak. When he finally stood up, his legs shook, but he still made his way to the litter box. I just watched in silence. When he was done, he went straight back to sleep. He could barely walk, but he still wanted to do things properly.

Every night before bed, he’d clean himself carefully — licking his fur and paws until they gleamed. Then he’d curl up on my stomach, warm and heavy, purring until we both drifted off.

Winters in the city were freezing, so we kept each other warm. He hated the cold too, and would curl up on my stomach like a little furry heater. At first, it was adorable — like having a soft, breathing toy. But as he grew bigger, I’d sometimes dream that a heavy rock was pressing on me… then wake up and realize it was just him.

Good times passed quickly before everything changed. I had to take a temporary job in another town and could only come home every couple of days. I left plenty of food and water for him, but I still worried—especially because of my neighbor, who was always complaining.

He was a middle-aged drunk who’d always looked down on people like me—a migrant worker from a rural town. One evening, after I came back home, he knocked on my door and threatened to kill the cat, saying it made noise at night.

I apologized and guessed that Amy was just panicking in the dark, missing my warmth. So I made a small doll shaped like me, hoping it would keep him company when I wasn’t there. But I couldn’t quit the job—I needed the money to get by.

Then one weekend, I came home and found him lying on the floor—still and silent. His body was already cold.

He had left me without a sound.

I suspected the neighbor — Maybe he had poisoned him, but I had no proof. We almost fought, yet I didn’t have the courage to face his anger. When I faced his drunk red face, the smell of alcohol in the air and his dirty words coming out, I was too lost to speak. I was just too tired.

I buried my little friend in a large park, under a tall tree where sunlight touched the grass. Very soon, I moved out of the place, quit my job, left that city behind. Then I returned to my hometown, empty-handed.

I failed at my job. That was when I realized I was just an ordinary man, not as capable as I had imagined. I failed as a pet owner too, and I’ve never raised another cat since.

But some rainy days, when I sit at my desk, a quiet warmth rises in me. Memories of those days when that little furball was always by my side.

He was a handful, always chewing cables, scratching the sofa, and tearing my clothes. But worst of all, he broke my heart.