Our cat Tangyuan fully embodies the spirit of “forgive me for this unruly love of freedom.” As a kitten, he was clever and lively, obsessed with chasing balls—two hours of daily play would satisfy him completely. But at five months old, he grew restless at home, losing interest in toys. He’d stare longingly at the dogs downstairs from the balcony every day, desperate to go outside. He also frequently attacked family members; my parents and I all suffered scratches and bites from him.
We later took him to our old house, hoping a yard would give him space to move. It was winter, and my mom would place him in a cat carrier each day, where he’d lie in the sun and nap. When awake, he’d meow softly, and we’d tend to his meals and litter. He’d play with his favorite fuzzy ball and mouse toys in the yard. After that, his aggression vanished—he’d snuggle up to us, purring and acting cute, and we enjoyed a honeymoon period.
As he grew accustomed to the new environment, his curiosity expanded, and he longed to explore the wider world. He secretly learned to unlock doors and pry open windows. One sunny morning, he escaped. My parents rushed to chase him but failed. After searching for hours, he sauntered home at dusk as if nothing had happened. Frustrated, my parents confined him, but he remained unbothered, sneaking out again when we weren’t looking—this time, he even stayed out all night.
This became a routine: he’d wander at night and return during the day to eat and sleep. He fought with stray cats, returning with two bald patches from wounds. We took him to the vet for check-ups, deworming, and medication. But after wolfing down his food, he’d dash out again to fight. Angry as we were, we confined him at home. Unable to go out, he began attacking us again.
On the eve of a rainstorm this early summer, he escaped once more and didn’t return for seven days. We searched everywhere to no avail. My mom cried for days, worrying he’d be scared by thunder, go hungry, or be taken away. Just when we’d lost hope, a friend of my dad’s spotted a cat resembling Tangyuan on a rock by the river while fishing. My parents rushed to the park and confirmed it was him. My dad grabbed a basin and waded into the river fully clothed. Possibly too hungry to recognize us, Tangyuan jumped into the water and swam to shore at the sight of my dad.
He’d lost significant weight and underwent another round of vet care. After a month of recovery, his diarrhea stopped, and he gained some weight back. We resolved never to let him escape again, but feared he’d be unhappy without exercise, so we bought a cat leash for daily park walks. He hated being leashed, still craving freedom.
Sixteen days ago, he escaped again, and even the “all-knowing” fishing enthusiasts didn’t spot him. Though my parents didn’t say it, they feared Tangyuan would never return. On the seventh day of his absence, the “plump cat, prosperous home” door curtain at our bathroom door fell onto my mom. “Is Tangyuan’s spirit home to visit us?” I wondered, and we both tearfully embraced the thought.
This morning, he returned—thin but meowing softly as he nuzzled my mom. “Even if cats have nine lives,” she said, “they can’t keep doing this.” No matter how he protests, he’s staying indoors from now on.
Tangyuan’s adventures have taught us the power of freedom and the agony of loss. He may never fully accept domestication, but his ability to find his way home time and again reminds us that love, like a cat’s wanderlust, knows no bounds.
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