I had a cat named Noodles.
A Bengal.

I walked him on a leash from the time he was a kitten. Everyone who saw him on the street let out an ooooooh. Kids, adults, everyone.

I lived on a busy side of town back then. Children would run toward us the moment they spotted him. Small hands in his fur, questions coming from all directions.

I think Noodles knew. He carried himself with confidence. I couldn’t tell if it was real, or if it was a show he was putting on.

It was strong enough that he would approach dogs five times his size until they backed off, as if he were saying, don’t mess with me.

Because of Noodles, I often ended up talking to strangers.

He came to my office every day. He would nap in an empty flower pot. During breaks, my colleagues played with him. One of his favorite games was something they called “turntable,” where he was gently spun around like a DJ.

Sometimes they put him on a skateboard and pushed him across the office.

Clients who visited always asked for him. Before long, he became our office mascot.

Later, we moved to the outskirts of town, into a ground-floor apartment.

When Covid hit, the streets grew quiet. There was less traffic. Noodles began spending more time by the glass, watching birds. It was clear he wanted to go out on his own.

So I let him.

He slipped out through the balcony and came back when he wanted. When I stepped outside to look for him, he would suddenly jump out from a nearby bush, happy to see me. How he recognized me every single time was a mystery.

When I walked around the block, he followed a few steps behind.

No leash.

One rainy day, just after he had turned four, I was working.

Noodles came to my feet and tried to get my attention. I brushed him off, telling him I was busy. He came back a few times. Then he disappeared through the open balcony door.

An hour later, I received a call from a stranger.

The woman struggled to explain that she had found my cat on the sidewalk. He had been hit by a car.

My heart dropped.

I ran there with a bedsheet. The woman stood over Noodles, holding her umbrella above his body. She was completely soaked.

I crouched beside his body and cried out loud. I don’t know for how long.

The rain kept pouring. Cars passed by as if nothing had happened.

The woman didn’t rush me. She stayed and let me grieve.

Since that day, I often feel like Noodles is about to jump out from that same bush whenever I walk past it.

Sometimes I imagine him looking down at me in the early morning, the way he used to when I was still in bed. Or how we sometimes napped together, him curled up in my arms.

People tell me I shouldn’t have let him go out freely. And sometimes, I regret it too.

I had a GPS on his collar. I knew the areas he wandered into. I knew he sometimes crossed the road.

And yet, it didn’t stop me.

For that short year, he wasn’t a mascot or something people admired.

He was simply a cat.
He was free.
And he was happy.