[Cat Story] Natsumegu and Churu

By Manager

Natsumegu was never much of a people cat. Was, I should say. As the summer of 2026 began to make itself felt, she passed away at the age of seventeen.

Natsumegu—Nacchan or Natsu to us—was a brown tabby my partner had rescued from beneath an overpass near our home. True to the grand tradition of brown tabbies everywhere, she showed absolutely no sign of ever warming to humans. Her tail was a spectacular kinked affair, like one of those metal puzzles someone had taken hold of and forcibly twisted out of shape. It seemed almost like her personality made physical.

Her meow was peculiar too: something like unininini. And her default facial expression was a scowl.

Needless to say, no adopter ever came along.

She especially hated cameras. Point a phone at her and her ears would flatten as she pulled the most extraordinarily bitter expression imaginable. This was well beyond simply being “unphotogenic.” There was something almost ancient in the distrust on her face, as if she intended to curse the offending smartphone—and preferably destroy it in the process—using nothing but the power of her glare.

Then, while Nacchan was still young, she suddenly became completely paralyzed.

Eventually we took her all the way to an advanced veterinary medical center in Kawasaki, but no one could determine the cause. We were told she probably had only a few days left.

She was still so young.

And yet there she was, unable to move anything below her neck, absolutely furious at the vet who was rather casually prodding and palpating her.

“HSSS! PSHHH!”

Full fighting spirit.

I admit I was a little impressed. There was something admirable about the sheer consistency of her hatred of humans.

Even at death’s door, she would not compromise. At that point it was beginning to feel less like hostility and more like a noble personal creed.

We were told there was nothing more medicine could do, so we brought Natsumegu home. My partner and I prepared ourselves to see her through to the end.

Then, a few days later, one of her hind legs moved. A few days after that, her front legs started moving too.

And before we knew it, Natsumegu was walking around normally.

I showed the video I had taken to the vet. He tilted his head. I tilted mine. My partner tilted hers.

Natsumegu alone sat there with her usual scowl, looking as though absolutely nothing unusual had happened.

Later, her kidneys failed and she nearly died again. She recovered. Then her numbers deteriorated once more. One of her kidneys eventually shrank away almost completely, and she underwent the kind of surgery where the odds were very much not in her favor.

And once again, in defiance of those odds, Nacchan came home.

This cat really was something, I thought. Admittedly, enormous amounts of money also vanished each time she did it.

After enough rounds of this, Nacchan gradually began to let us into her world.

I have no idea whether cats understand the concept of these humans saved me. What I do know is that she stopped hissing at us nearly as often. She stopped baring her teeth. And by the time she had lost the function of one kidney, she finally allowed us to pet her.

When we did, she would flatten her ears and tense her entire body. She could have run away whenever she wanted. But for some reason, she stayed. Natsumegu would remain rooted to the spot, still visibly uncomfortable, looking back at us with an expression that seemed to say:

It’s not like I’m enjoying this or anything.

That was probably as great a concession to humanity as Nacchan was ever prepared to make.

Then, in 2026, her health suddenly declined again.

Nacchan had crossed more than a few dangerous bridges in her life, but this time even we could see that she was nearing her limit. Before long she was spending almost all her time in bed, and even walking became difficult.

There was one exception.

Churu.

Her beloved Churu.

The moment she heard us rustling one of those little packets, her head would rise.

Then she would stand.

She would wobble her way over to us and take one lick of Churu.

And then, as if she had used every last ounce of strength she possessed, she would collapse right there on the spot.

You really like Churu that much?

She kept doing it until about the day before she died.

Apparently, some small percentage of her remaining life force had been placed in a separate account reserved exclusively for Churu. One might argue there were other things she could have spent it on.

Natsumegu chose Churu.

Right to the end.

Somehow, that felt exactly like her.

In the end, she slipped away as though falling asleep.

This time, she didn’t come back.

Still, she was seventeen. For a cat who had nearly died so many times, I think she lived more than enough life.

Natsumegu used to love sharpening her claws on a cactus-shaped scratching post.

Nobody scratches there anymore.

For a while afterward, even the cactus seemed a little lonely.

—The End