She meows her head off, a signal that she’s screaming for attention, at least that’s what I assume, being a cat owner for six years.

But her voice pierces my brain if I pick her up and run my fingers along the top of her head.

Alright, alright, I let go of her. And there she is, doing the same old trick again, meow meow meowing, poking her head around the corner and seemingly screaming at me just so she can get attention.

Well, she gets it. I grab the broom from the kitchen and chase after her. She runs a few steps and turns back to see if I’m following her or just going through the motions. If the latter is the case, she meows all over again.

After this episode, she subdues, and I resume my reading at the desk nestled in the living room corner.

She’s my cat and her name is Bubble.

We first met back in June 2017 at the security guard’s box at a half-abandoned factory in the middle of Baiyun District, Guangzhou. She was only a couple of weeks old and just slightly larger than my hand.

Her fur was black and brown, and her nose and mouth were protruded from a triangular patch of white fur. The fur on her feet was also white, giving the impression that she was wearing white socks. Hence, I sometimes still call her ‘white socks’ as she marches toward me seeking attention.

Upon closer observation, her fur was a safe haven for a flea army. And as soon as we took her and her brother, an orange ginger cat, home, the war of removing and killing fleas started lasting a couple of weeks until they were old enough, at least for Bubble, to be submerged in water, forcing the bloodsuckers to the top of her head, for which we had applied flea powder. The shock of the hairdryer, however, resulted in blood being drawn from my husband’s hand.

As if she were embarrassed by her flea situation or perhaps she was simply shy in the first week at her new home, she spent most of the day time under the only sofa in our tiny apartment, or as was more common, I would find her dozing off in my woolen slipper, curled into a ball. 

It didn’t take them long to settle into their new surroundings though. Instead of hiding away in my slipper, they singled out my husband’s foot as their new siesta spot, her tiny paws resting on my husband’s toes, forcing him to sit motionless for extended periods of time. 

By the time she was confident enough to stretch out on the sofa, she had also confidently claimed my desk as her new territory. After strolling back and forth on the desktop, she sat made the book I was reading at home, her front legs stretching out, blocking most of the content, as she lay her head down on my hand that kept the book open.

Sighing and shaking my head, I stroked her head until she purred contently.

Unlike her brother Orange who begged at the dinner table for meat every day, her appetite was limited to, as it still is today, cat food and the occasional bread or cookie crumb. She eats as if she were a dainty princess, taking one tiny bite at a time and taking an inordinate amount of time just to consume one thumbnail portion of bread or cookie, after which, consuming only three quarters of the tidbit, finds a place to lie down as if the whole procedure exhausts her. 

“Too dainty!” I remark every time I spot her eating, “I don’t think she’d survive long outside fending for herself, and she certainly would have made a lousy factor rat-catching cat, no doubt, and would have only been kept alive by the hunting instinct her meat-eating brother seems very much to be in touch with. 

As she turned into a teenager, her true felinity started unveiling itself. By this time, she was a frequent visitor to my desk and would doze off there as long as I worked. Sometimes I would tease her by calling her name. ‘Bubble’, I mouthed. ‘Meow!’ immediately came her response, her ears alert while her eyes still shut. Not a stupid cat by a long mile. 

About 11 months after taking her home, she popped out four kittens and for a year or so, she abandoned me and focused her attention on her babies. My husband carved a cat house out of cardboard and placed it on the bottom shelf of my bookcase to keep the other two male cats from prying into her tribe.

One year into her motherhood, the kitten we kept, Bobbie, was still sucking milk, if there was any, from Bubble, a few times a day. This lengthy breastfeeding period surprised me, as I would never have thought a cat would have taken such a matriarchal attitude towards what was now, in human years, a 7 year old Bobbie, and when laid out front paws to tail, was longer than her mother. Animal ‘baby care’ took on new meaning. 

Even now, years later, she still jumps to attention whenever her daughter, Bobbie, lets out a high-pitch shriek and runs over to supervise the scene with a concerned look. Bobbie, being the youngest of the tribe, is indulged in the spotlight and as a result, she remains a kitten, both physically and psychologically and sometimes I wonder if it’s caused by the prolonged milk-feeding period Bubble indulged her with. 

An expert in comfort-seeking, Bubble is always found at the cushiest spots in the apartment: the foot stand in front of the electric heater on cold winter days, a cushion by the living room window offering a fantastic tree view in spring, a box on top of the wardrobe when she refuses to be bothered, and a flannel blanket in the bedroom.

Just when I feel she’s totally lost her interest in me, I find her waiting at the glass partition door by the entrance hall whenever I come back home. “Meow~~,” she greets, as if expressing her excitement in seeing me after ten or so hours. 

These days, however, every moment she seems to be swinging between two modes: the angel mode or the devil mode. As we both venture into middle age, our temper shortens, and our communication channel narrows into stroking and chasing after each other. 

When I sit at my desk reading or working, she strolls over and lets out a few meows before I motion her to sit on my lap where she’ll remain purring away. An hour later, I may find myself chasing after her with a broom when she meows her head off for no particular reason and out of desperation, she dives into the hole between two cushy couches and waits patiently there until I’ve put away the broom. 

Minutes later, she reappears from underneath the sofa with a look that the war between us is a thing of the past. She nears the window by my desk and gazes at the tree view, front legs dangling at the side of the cushion.