I felt a bit restless, unable to calm down enough to do anything. I wanted to distract myself with something, but in the end I still sat down and tried to read. My cat was darting back and forth nearby, occasionally brushing her tail lightly against my hand, then quickly rolling onto the floor, belly up, twisting her furry body in a completely unguarded pose. But in truth, if you touched her belly right then, she’d definitely bite you. Touch her back instead, and she’ll purr.

Whenever I get close to Luna, she freezes for a moment, then quickly shifts into a look of comfort; in less than half a minute, she’s purring loudly. Unlike Moira, Luna will run to my hand when she wants to be petted, and when she wants to cuddle she’ll come and curl up on me. If she likes me, she purrs—loudly. Moira is different. When she wants to be held, she’ll quietly walk over and sit beside me. Or, when I’m writing, she’ll stroll past me, turn her head to glance at me a few times, pretending not to care, but actually saying: come play with me. If I don’t react, she’ll repeat this several times. If I still don’t notice, she’ll finally bring me her toy, meowing as she comes over. But no matter how happy she is, she never purrs. No matter how much she wants to be held, she has to make it look like it’s my idea. I understand her awkwardness. Her love runs deep; I know I’m unique to her, so I don’t mind her shyness.

Before she was rescued from a half-dead state, Moira had never had a stable, long-term home—always wandering, never knowing where her next meal would come from, let alone having “friends.” Judging from her condition when she first arrived at the shelter, she probably didn’t get along with other cats either—ready to bare her claws and strike at the slightest provocation. It’s hard to imagine that this same cat now waits for me on my bed every night, or quietly shifts closer to my feet after I’ve fallen asleep, as if she sleeps more soundly when leaning against me. As if she can only fully relax when I’m there.

Daiga says that whenever I’m out late at night, Moira gets anxious—constantly watching the hallway, waiting by the door from time to time. Lately she’s been waiting right on my bed, half-asleep, but never fully giving up on me coming home. In those moments, I often feel unworthy of her. How did I manage to win over the cat that once terrified everyone? Maybe it’s because I love her. She knows, I know, and I know she knows.

Moira once trusted no one, but with the shelter’s help she slowly learned how to interact with people, communicate, and express herself. Even now, whenever she sees someone in scrubs—veterinarian or not—she rushes over to rub against them. That makes me want to protect her, even though she doesn’t really need protecting. I want to give her a home. She’s fought for herself for so long; she’s earned her retirement. That’s how I see it. I give her the best environment I can, and she’s begun to understand the rhythms of my life: when I want to be interrupted, when I need to be alone, when I’m depressed and lying in bed all day, when I’m anxious. She’ll quietly sit next to me. Often she senses my emotions before I do. My own feelings are misaligned, delayed, needing reflection before I recognize them. Moira knows instantly.

Moira’s way of relating to people is awkward. Unlike Luna, who asks for what she wants and expresses her affection openly, Moira’s expressions are subtler, more restrained, deeper. Not that Luna is shallow, but I can feel Moira’s depth. It’s strange—she’s a cat. I’m convinced she must have been a human in her last life. What she did to end up as a cat this time, I have no idea. Maybe she chose it herself. Being my cat isn’t such a bad deal—if you don’t mind retiring, that is.

Summer nights are always so wonderful. They say this is the coldest summer San Francisco has had in decades; a few days ago, going up the hill, there was thick fog and rain. But honestly, I like this weather. A blazing sun every day feels like being caught unprepared, forced to summon the energy to start all over again. Cloudy, drizzly days, on the other hand, give you an excuse to be lazy—stay in bed all day, music playing, drifting in and out of sleep. That has its own kind of beauty.

I started reading The Savage Detectives. They say the author had the core idea for a “wandering poets collective” as early as 1990, but only wrote scattered fragments and poems at first. It wasn’t until 1997–1998 that he began concentrated work, shifting from poetry to fiction. The first draft took only about a year, completed in 1998. It seems he barely revised it before publishing. The edition I have is 648 pages. If it took a year to write, that’s an average of about 2.5 pages a day. At my current writing pace, it’s not impossible. Maybe I should just keep writing like this until it comes together into a book. I thought about it seriously.