Essay: "The Cat Who May Have Started Believing in Me"

There are many paths to enlightenment, but I never thought one of them would involve a black-and-white cat staring up at me from the middle of the street as I brushed my teeth. Yet, here we are. The universe, it seems, has a sense of humor. Or perhaps it simply prefers the absurd.

It all started innocuously enough. My house faces a small street where stray cats roam freely, engaging in nightly battles for food and territory. These battles are dramatic, high-stakes brawls akin to an absurdist play, complete with a fair share of noise, fur, and confusion. The cats, you see, are not above leaving their mark on the houses they visit—peeing and pooing on roofs and occasionally in ceilings. I don’t know which is worse: the constant reminder of their existence in my home, or the fact that I can’t quite bring myself to deal with them in any...final way.

Instead, I’ve taken to sealing all entrances they might use to enter my house. This, of course, is an ongoing project, like a modern-day Sisyphus pushing a boulder uphill—except the boulder is a colony of ever-determined felines. Yet, in the midst of this battle, I find myself in a moral conundrum. You see, I’m not a monster. I can’t throw away food. I’ve always been uncomfortable with waste, especially when I know that, in other parts of the world, people are starving. And so, instead of tossing out my niece’s leftover meals (which tend to pile up like neglected dreams), I decided to feed the leftovers to the cats.

Now, it’s important to note that I work from home, and I often finish late—long after the average human should be up, engaging in any meaningful activity. But at midnight, while others are presumably asleep, I stand on my second-floor balcony, tossing scraps of meat to the waiting cats below. It’s a ritual now. A tiny, twisted form of charity. The cats have grown accustomed to my late-night offerings, which, frankly, worries me. They’ve come to expect it, and I can’t help but feel I’ve become some sort of celestial provider. Not that I wanted this role, mind you. I’m financially struggling too, after all.

But one night, as I brushed my teeth, I saw a black-and-white cat. There he was, sitting in the middle of the street, gazing up at me, his eyes reflecting a kind of solemn patience. A good five minutes passed as I brushed my teeth, and he didn’t budge. Just sat there. And I thought, What a patient little fellow. But more than that, I thought, What is he waiting for?

It wasn’t until I finished brushing my teeth and went inside that the absurdity of the situation fully dawned on me. Thirty minutes later, when I returned to the balcony to check on him, he was still there. Still waiting. Still staring up, expectantly, as though my second-floor balcony were some divine temple, and I, a benevolent deity. The image was almost too much to bear, as if the cat’s silent devotion was a mirror to my own absurd existence.

But here's the thing—he was waiting for food. And I had none. I felt terrible. What was I supposed to do? I could have simply thrown something, anything, out to him to appease his innocent faith. But alas, there were no leftovers that night to soothe his faith. All I could do was offer a silent prayer of my own, one filled with apologies and a rather desperate hope that the cat would understand.

And then it hit me: What if this cat has started to believe in me? Has he, in the deep recesses of his furry little soul, started to think of me as some sort of divine being? Well, probably not. He's just hungry. But isn't that what faith often comes down to—expecting something to happen because it has, in the past, when you’ve waited long enough?

In that moment, I realized something that both saddened and amused me: I am not his god. But I do provide food. A minor deity, really. The cat doesn’t know that my faith is on the rocks and that I am, in fact, also waiting—for something, anything—to relieve me from this absurd world. I’m financially struggling, emotionally drained, and exist somewhere between the messy tangle of existential doubt and genuine kindness. The cat doesn’t know that. He simply knows one thing: when he sits quietly, staring up at me, I might—just might—throw him a piece of meat.

Is that faith? Is that enough to spark belief in something greater than himself, even if that “something” is just a tired, overworked human who’s as confused as he is about the whole thing?

At the end of the day, the question might be a little beside the point. The cat will probably go on waiting, as cats do, for whatever scraps the universe (or, in this case, I) may provide. And I, too, will go on wondering if maybe, just maybe, I’ve become a deity in the eyes of a creature who doesn’t really care about theology, philosophy, or even existential suffering. Perhaps, deep down, the cat just wants food—any food. But maybe, in some strange way, we both want the same thing: to be seen, to be noticed, and to get what we’re waiting for.

It’s all quite beautiful in a tragic, ironic way—this little intersection between faith and desperation. If only the cat knew that I, too, am waiting. Waiting for something to save me from this absurd world. Perhaps next time, I’ll throw him a prayer instead of a scrap of meat. Maybe it’ll help. Or, you know, maybe not.

But what’s the harm in hoping?

- - Rob San Miguel