About three or four years ago, when I was still doing "communication with the living," I encountered a particularly memorable case. The client, a mother, had gone through a series of painful relationships—domestic violence, endless arguments, and emotional turmoil. She came to me simply wanting to apologize to her cat for having witnessed all those distressing moments.
"In such an atmosphere, PiPi must have been terrified," she said softly.
PiPi, a Persian cat with a strong and distinct personality, wasn't fond of being cuddled and preferred to keep her distance. Yet, she had quietly witnessed all her owner's heartbreaks and struggles.
"I was so afraid of losing Mom. Sometimes I felt like she was about to die," PiPi expressed during the session. "When those awful men got angry, PiPi was really nervous."
"When Mom cried alone, PiPi could only circle around her legs or lean my head on her to comfort her, but Mom never seemed to notice."
"PiPi wanted to give those bad men a good swipe with my paw—but I'm just a cat. If I could become human someday, I would take good care of Mom." PiPi's words flowed like a stream, full of warmth and protectiveness.
Eventually, Mom met someone kind and loving. The energy around her began to change, and PiPi could feel it too.
"Now PiPi can relax between Mom and the new Dad. Since Mom is at ease, PiPi can also be at ease—purring and happy. Mom, can you hear me?"
Animals who share their lives so closely with us often quietly absorb our emotions—joy, sorrow, anger, and love—even if they seem aloof, like PiPi did. That bond runs deep.
"PiPi, do you like the new Dad?" Mom asked, knowing how much the answer meant.
PiPi was a little surprised that this new man cared so much about being accepted. "Before, only Mom thought I mattered. Now I realize this Dad loves me too. As long as someone treats Mom well and is kind to me, I'll love them deeply."
Then Mom asked, "Would you like another cat to keep you company while I'm at work?"
"I'm fine staying home by myself," PiPi replied. "But if Mom wants to adopt someone, show me their picture first so I can tell you if I like them. My strength isn't what it used to be—I don't want to babysit!" PiPi was already eight years old at the time.
"Then maybe I'll just spend more time with you," Mom offered.
PiPi responded with grace and independence: "You won't always have that much time. I have my own life to live too. Mom, just take care of yourself first. If you pour too much of your heart into me, PiPi might feel suffocated. Now that you have someone who loves you, the two of you can love me together."
With peace finally settling in, PiPi had gently taught Mom the lesson of space and balance—very much in tune with a cat's nature.
This past January, Mom contacted me again with heartbreaking news: PiPi had developed a brain tumor, and the doctor said she had only about three months left. Mom wanted to know if PiPi had any messages for her, but I had already returned to a full-time job and couldn't schedule a session in time. I never got the chance to speak with that sweet and cool little soul again.
Recently, I felt a sudden urge to share PiPi's story. As usual, I chose a photo and tried to write a caption from her perspective. After thinking for a while, one sentence flashed in my mind: "Mom, live well."
When Mom saw that post, she burst into tears. PiPi had already lost her battle with illness and returned to her starry home. Through her tears, Mom said, "I've never had the courage to ask how she's doing now, but at this moment, I've received her message."
Perhaps writing this article—and recalling that heartfelt phrase—was all part of PiPi's arrangement from the very beginning.
