The Cat Who Shared My Life in Vietnam

 

Vietnam and My Cat

When I first came to Vietnam, I lived in an apartment complex called Vinhomes.

It was a comfortable apartment with two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a kitchen. The rent was about 700,000 Korean won per month. Built along the river, it offered beautiful views during the day and stunning city lights at night. The complex also had excellent facilities, making it a wonderful place to live.

But no matter how nice a home is, living alone can sometimes feel lonely.

To fill that empty space in my life, I adopted a three-month-old Turkish Angora kitten. She was pure white, and I paid about 3.5 million VND for her.

Before that, I had never owned a cat.

As it turned out, there was much more to taking care of a cat than I expected. There was cat food, special treats, toys, litter, and even a cat tower. Every evening after work, I would come home and spend time playing with her.

Little by little, we became attached to each other.

For me, she was much more than a pet. Living alone in a foreign country, she brought comfort, companionship, and happiness into my life.

She was beautiful, gentle, and incredibly affectionate. She followed me everywhere and always seemed happy to see me when I came home. Just seeing her waiting for me at the door could make all the stress of the day disappear.

Of course, there were challenges too.

The litter box needed constant cleaning, and there was always a bit of odor. But the biggest challenge was her fur.

White fur seemed to be everywhere. Whenever I wore black clothes, they would instantly be covered with white hair. For a while, I practically stopped wearing black.

But the biggest change was in my daily life.

After work, I always felt the need to rush home because I knew she had been waiting for me all day. Even on weekends, I found myself thinking about her. If I went out for too long, I worried about leaving her alone.

Maybe that's why people say cats have a special kind of magic.

Unlike dogs, cats don't constantly demand attention. They observe you. They notice your habits and even seem to remember what you like and dislike.

She always stayed close to me, but never too close.

Usually, she would sit about a meter away, quietly watching me. If I tried to pick her up, she would keep her distance. But when she wanted attention, she would come over on her own terms and gently invite me to play.

It often felt as though she could read my mood.

She was always nearby, yet never intrusive.

That's why I often felt that I wasn't raising a cat.

We were simply living together.

It felt less like owning a pet and more like sharing my life with another person.

She was calm, thoughtful, and full of character.

Last year, however, I had to leave for an extended business tri

p and temporarily entrusted her to someone else.

Not long afterward, I received heartbreaking news.

She had passed away from acute kidney stones.

I wasn't there for her final moments.

The only thing I received was a photograph.

When I saw that picture, my heart broke.

I never had the chance to say goodbye.

For days afterward, I found myself crying while trying to work. It felt as though I had lost my closest friend.

Some people might say, "It was just a cat."

But to me, she was family.

She was my companion during some of the loneliest years of my life in Vietnam.

Even now, I still think about her from time to time.

I still miss you, Jjang-A.

And I still wish I could have held you one more time.