If I Could Meet You Again in a Dream: The Story of Lily, the Cat I Grew Up With for 18 Years

Yesterday, I had a dream like this.

I was lazily sunbathing on the balcony of my parents' house.

It was a warm, sunny day, and I felt a little sleepy.

It's a bit strange to feel sleepy in a dream, but I was sleepy.

As I rolled over, a cat approached my face.

Her tail touched my face, and it tickled.

I pulled the cat close to my chest.

The cat didn't resist and settled snugly against my chest.

It was Lily.

Lily's large, dark eyes were staring at me blankly.

"Lily...?"

As if nodding, Lily rested her chin flat against my chest and closed her eyes, looking content.

And then, I woke up.

I felt as if Lily's warmth was still lingering on my chest.

Lily was a cat we had when I was little—no, she was a cat I grew up with.

I grew up with three cats for a long time.

Especially Lily, the mother cat, with whom I lived under the same roof for 18 years.

I was born in July, and the following August, during the Obon holiday, my mother found a kitten that seemed to be just born, licking an ohagi (rice cake) next to a gravestone while she was visiting a grave. She felt sorry for it and brought it home; that cat was Lily.

She was a black-and-white patched cat with more black than white.

My baby photos are all with Lily.

She was a gentle, laid-back cat who often licked my face.

I remember when I was little, we would often play secret base in my futon with a flashlight.

Even though I was just dragging her along...

For some reason, she was always more attached to me than to my sister, and we often slept together during the cold winters.

But when I was in the fifth grade, tragedy struck.

Although Lily was an indoor cat, my mother would occasionally open a gap in the balcony door to let her out into the garden.

Usually, she would just wander around the garden or the back of the house and return within a few hours, or by evening at the latest.

But that night, for some reason, she didn't come back, and both my mother and I went to sleep feeling worried.

The next morning, I think it was still early.

I jumped out of bed when I heard my mother's blood-curdling scream coming from the garden.

When I tried to go out to see what happened, my mother shouted, "Don't come out!" and I was sent back inside.

At that moment, Lily was lying limp in the garden, bleeding, with her right front leg severed at the root.

I apologize for the graphic description.

But please, let me write this.

At the time, there were people setting traps for cats to use their skin for shamisen, and Lily had been caught in one.

My mother took her to the hospital immediately, and although I was sent to school, I was so worried that I ran home and asked my mother, "How is she!?" She told me through tears that while it was still touch-and-go, the vet had managed to save Lily's life.

Even with her leg torn off, Lily had somehow managed to escape and drag her body back to our garden. The trail of blood leading to the vacant lot behind our house made my heart ache with pain.

You're amazing, Lily.

You came back to us.

I'm sorry, you must have been in so much pain.

I cried with my mother, my heart a jumble of Lily's unimaginable pain and suffering, anger toward whoever did such a terrible thing, and the relief that she had come back alive.

If we had been just a little later, she would have died from blood loss, but thanks to the director of the animal hospital we frequented, Lily's life was saved, and after a few days of hospitalization, she returned home.

For a while, Lily couldn't move, but there was still life in her eyes. My mother and I would pour soup into her mouth and carry her to the litter box; I stayed by her side whenever I wasn't at school, and my mother cared for her around the clock.

A few weeks later, to our amazement, Lily was able to walk, hopping along on three legs.

A few months after that, she was even able to jump onto my bed.

My mother never let Lily out into the garden again, but even with three legs, Lily was able to go about her daily life.

And she lived for another seven years after that.

As the long years passed, Lily's movements slowed due to old age, and she gradually grew weaker. When I was a senior in high school, shortly before the winter university entrance exams, Lily came to my bed the night before she passed away.

She couldn't even jump up a mere 30 centimeters, and she stood by the side of the bed as if she wanted to sleep with me.

Perhaps it was just me wanting to be with her that made it seem that way.

I picked Lily up as I always did, tucked her into the futon, and we slept together. She was thin and bony by then. But she was still warm.

When I woke up the next morning, Lily was gone.

My mother came in and said quietly, "Lily passed away this morning."

My mother wasn't crying at that moment, but she had a lonely expression on her face.

Lily, who lived her life to the fullest.

Lily, who was always with me.

Lily, who came back to us and lived such a long life.

Thank you, truly, thank you so much.

That morning, the two of us quietly said goodbye to Lily.

According to my mother, when she noticed she hadn't seen Lily that morning and went to look for her, she found her curled up in the corner of the kotatsu as if hiding, having already passed away.

Lily, who I grew up with for all 18 years since she was born.

I am one month older than her.

But Lily was more like a mother to me than a sibling.

A long time has passed since then, but thank you for appearing in my dreams.

Whether human,

or dog,

or cat,

those distinctions didn't matter; you were simply, purely family.

You were my precious family.

Her name was Lily.

I wonder if I can see you again tonight.

Just one more time,

even if it's only in a dream.