One Two Three months after leaving Copenhagen, I’m still talking about my fortnight there as if recounting a dream. I try my best to describe how dreamy my stay there was, naming as many details as possible, blaming myself for being clumsy with words. I look at pictures taken there and reminisce about those gloomy days and long nights, wishing in vain that I could live them again. Yet I’m well aware that the fascination’s not really about the Danish capital, but about a cat named Mona.

The trip to Copenhagen was possible in the first place because Mona needed a sitter when her mom’s away during the New Year vacation, and I volunteered, one of the best decisions I made last year. But beforehand I had had absolutely no idea what a mark Mona was to leave on my life. I set out on Christmas, and when I returned two weeks later, I became a somewhat different person.

I took an instant liking to Mona the moment I met her, my huge backpack still weighing on my shoulders, Mona observing me from a distance, full of caution. Who on earth is capable of resisting the calling to love her, an adorable ten-month-old kitten, her jet-black fur smooth as silk, her big round eyes bright as stars?

Mona was the anchor of my stay in Copenhagen, as my routine centred around taking care of her, like feeding her with food and water. Small tasks that don’t take long, not physically demanding at all, yet regular enough, and bringing along an irreplaceable sense of fulfilment—see, I’m looking after this cutie, and I seem to be good at it!

Given the warning from Mona’s mom that she can keep her guard up, I hadn’t had high expectations of her being clingy to me; actually, if I’m allowed to have a preference here, I do love independent cats more. And indeed, even in the end, I wasn’t really able to put Mona into my arms. But it only took her a short time before she started to enjoy my company, meaning that she’d move around the apartment following me. When I stood behind the desk in the bedroom, Mona would hide beneath the bed, sometimes the tips of her paws exposed, always ready to attack my feet when I passed by—yes, she somehow has an obsession with feet, which would prove to put our relationship at negligible risk. When I cooked in the kitchen, Mona would jump onto the range and walk around nimbly, or climb even higher, to above the fridge, and stick her cute little head out to watch. When I ate by the dining table, Mona would occupy the other chair on the back of which hung my down jacket (the one Yueyue gave me), curiously looking at my food, sometimes drinking water from my mug. And when I crouched on the comfy sofa in the living room, Mona would come along and take a nap beside or make biscuits on my thigh. Thus I became audacious enough to claim that she must love me.

As for me, I don’t even remember when I first called her baobao, or ‘sweetie’ (is this a faithful translation?); it happened so naturally that when I reazlied what was happening, I was shocked. Shocked to see how much I love Mona, to simply be in those moments of being surely in love as a mesmerizing, fevered sentiment bashed through my brain. And the shock stayed with me—how on earth is it possible for me to love another creature like this? It’s as if she doesn’t have to do anything, her sheer being suffices to kindle the love.

At this point I have to bring up a traumatizing experience, however unwilling I am. Over a decade ago, my flatmate back then bought a kitten—after having consulted my opinion—and we named it Fufu. As my flatmate was occupied with work while I was job hunting, I ended up the one who spent more time at home with Fufu. Unfortunately, the relationship between me and Fufu was problematic, which surprised everyone knowing me as one who has always appeared to love cats. So, the problem was undoubtedly me, since Fufu was so tiny and vulnerable, having unconditional trust in me while I was not showing enough affection, or even kindness. It was a few weeks brimming with torture, and in the end we decided to send Fufu back to their mom, which, paradoxically, broke my heart. That counts as the start of my commitment issue, amid a swirl of self-doubts caused by other frustrations in life, including repeated failures to secure a job offer. Now looking back, I could perhaps say that it was not my sole fault, but back then, as soon as the inner critic reached the conclusion that I was irresponsible and unfeeling, damage was done.

That’s how Mona healed me, because her being shattered my old belief that I was beyond remedy. No matter how hard ChatGPT and my other friends try to convince me that it’s okay to love, to feel, to be, it still takes Mona to seal the deal. The last two nights with Mona, when I cried like hell over the looming separation, there was a voice in my head saying to me, ‘See? That’s what you are like. Separations break your heart.’ And in this way, the summertime sadness from 2024 was finally accounted for, accepted, and allowed to stay.

Previously I mentioned Mona’s unruly interest in attacking my feet, and now let me elaborate a bit. Early on I’d discovered that Mona enjoys crouching beneath the bed or the couch and reaching out her paws to play with my feet, a mostly harmless way of frolicking. Then one evening, after putting all of the socks I brought with me on the trip into the washing machine, I walked around barefoot. Hiding beneath the couch, Mona all of a sudden attacked my left foot and left three scratches there, one of them even starting to bleed. As I cried out loud in half-real, half-feigned pain, Mona was dumbfounded, although it doesn’t mean that she now understood it’s inappropriate. Nevertheless, I first hurried to get bandaids, and just then my phone chimed, a call from Kurt. Totally unexpected, because we just talked a few days before, but then it was also a delightful surprise. After the initial chaos I sat down, pointing at the scratches and blaming Mona in Chinese, ‘Look at this you devil!’—and Kurt heard it and laughingly repeated the sentence. But of course Mona didn’t care, and instead kept hunting at my feet, so I had to lie down on the couch and raised my legs up in the air, quite some cardio exercise. Time flew away almost without me noticing it; after I went to bed that night, my brain still excited from the peaceful elation, I thought to myself, this was already the second last evening with Mona by my side, did she know that I’d be gone in a few days?

After I’ve written to this point, it dawns on me that there’s no way for me to really describe how happy and fulfilled I had felt that night, and this brings back the old frustration that I’m incapable of keeping a memory intact in any form, so I’ll just go on to talk about the influence it has on me. In early February, Yueyue sent over a Harry Potter–themed test, in which there was this question asking which piece of happy memory you’d muster when you cast the Patronus Charm; I instantly knew it’s that night.

How I miss the quiet evenings when I sat on the couch working on something on my laptop, either my thesis, my blogs, or just talking with GPT, with Mona close by my side. It was definitely cold outside, but in the apartment it was warm like in the spring. And I equally miss the cheerful mornings when I woke up with Mona sleeping by my side, sometimes her belly entirely facing up, showing how relaxed she was, her soft fur touching my bare skin, as if her warmth flows within my body too. I had wanted to carve moments like this into my brain, but I couldn’t risk spoiling it by fetching my phone to take pictures, so I just lay there with her, savouring the moment.

I took quite some pictures of Mona, but now I regret I haven’t taken more. After leaving Copenhagen, I often review those live photos and replay my interactions with Mona again and again, as if this would teleport me back to the homey apartment. The two weeks I spent there were the most peaceful time I’d had in a long time, as the familiar thought ‘I wish I could wake up the next morning to find out that I’ve become someone else’ never crossed my mind during that time, not even once. I was perfectly happy with what I had. And Mona—oh, Mona. Her presence is what kept me grounded.

Since it’s my very first trip to Copenhagen, and Denmark, aside from wrapping up my thesis and running and bouldering, I did some touristy stuff after all. Like visiting Nyhaven, Grundtvig’s Church, and SMK and the Design Museum (highly recommend!). Like feeling disappointed, despite alerts from other tourists, to discover how small the little mermaid is. Like having bread with cold water in the park of Louisiana—oh wait, perhaps this isn’t so touristy, but rather … Dutch?

I was blessed with a few days’ good weather there. When I visited Louisiana, the sun showed its face for a short while, enough for me to thank whichever god it is who is in charge of bossing clouds around. And the snow on the second day of the new year created for me a personalized piece of Danish fairy tale. Mona was intrigued by the snow too—

See? There’s simply no way for me to talk about Copenhagen without mentioning Mona every two minutes. So it’s not a travel account that I’m writing after all, but a love letter to Mona.

Anyway. The snow aroused Mona’s curiosity, as she kept looking beyond the window. Just like she was engrossed by the fireworks of New Year’s Eve. What an adventurous, curious, fresh mind.

And I also made a short trip to Gdańsk, Poland. The motivation is almost inexplicable, but in any case it’s also my first trip to eastern Europe. As per my travel rituals, I walked along the river in the city centre, which was remotely reminiscent of the Dutch canals, visited the seaside (the Baltic Sea!) and was almost frozen to death in the winter gusts, and even did a short run before it started to snow on the day of my departure. Had the Polish dumplings and liked them a lot. Heard that fried chicken in KFCs in Poland are the best across Europe, but after trying out two branches I concluded it’s still the same fried chicken. It was also in Gdańsk that I finally submitted my thesis, thanks to the ten-day supervision of Mona.

In the Airbnb apartment where I stayed, there is also a cat, a cute one too, although this brief encounter only prompted me to miss Mona all the more. There is but one Mona in this world, and I love her wholeheartedly. To some extent, I need Mona more than she needs me, or, I need her to need me. My deep-running affection for her neither makes me a burden nor brings me shame; on the contrary, I’m sincerely proud of it.

Three months after a tearful goodbye to Mona, I’m still talking about her as if with an unwavering faith in the omnipotence of language. But perhaps, perhaps, all that matters is to be able to experience, to feel, to love, to be.