A name, a beginning of connection

A name, and suddenly it feels close.

In the spring of 2023, Susu was born to a breeder in Germany. According to the breeder, he was the most affectionate of the litter. They named him Caesar — the first of the C-line.

On the day I decided to take him home, the first thing I did was give him a name. It is said that once you give a name, a bond is formed. I pondered for almost an hour until I asked for his birth date: February 19th.

At that moment, an idea suddenly struck me. I named him Susu (酥酥), inspired by the Chinese poetic line “天街小雨润如酥” — an image of something soft, refined, and quietly nourishing, almost imperceptible, yet full of life. It felt strangely special. From that moment on, I felt as if something already existed between us.

Our first encounter was at a small station in Trier. He was much smaller than I had expected — truly tiny. My partner and I put him in a carrier bag, and we took the train home. A twelve-hour journey. After that, he slowly began to get acquainted with the scent of home.

He grows slowly. And, unnoticed, more grows.

Only when you look back at photos and videos later do you realize how big he has become. As he grew, his fur became thicker and he got smarter — sometimes even a little too smart. He can open doors, he reads situations, and sometimes he knows exactly when it's better not to do something.

What never changed is how affectionate he remained. As a kitten, he preferred to lie on me — and he still does. As if people, in his eyes, are more attractive than everything around him.

I really tried my best to keep him entertained at home. From scratching posts to tunnels, from beds to toys — I kept looking for new things for him. Even with wand toys, I always had several, just to see which one he liked best.

Care, adapt — and yet everything remains the same.

In the autumn of 2025, during a check-up at the vet, we were told he has a congenital heart problem. The vet advised limiting intensive play. Since then, we've adjusted the pace somewhat.

But every time I pick up a toy, he still reacts as he used to — enthusiastic, focused, completely in the moment. I then consciously play with him, imagining the feather is a small insect — I change the speed and direction to keep his attention. For him, it's simply irresistible.

He is there, as a family member is there. And slowly I'm beginning to understand what it means to care for an animal. As it is said in The Little Prince: you become responsible for what you have tamed. Perhaps living together means exactly that — caring, giving time, and learning to appreciate the quiet moments in between.