‘She and Her Cat’ and the quiet power of presence
She and Her Cat (first published in 2013), by Makoto Shinkai and Naruki Nagakawa, was a gift to me, someone who has lived with cats for over 20 years—given with a cat-shaped bookmark, no less (my friends know me well).
I had wanted to read it for a while, given it's been 12 years since its publishing, but hadn't bought it, guiltily eyeing the unfinished stack of books at home. But once it landed in my hands, I didn't hesitate. "Let the others wait," I thought.
For all latest news, follow The Daily Star's Google News channel. On a work trip to China, I finally opened it because I always spend flights with a book. Midair between Dhaka and Kunming, I began the first chapter.
She and Her Cat is a quiet, slender book. A set of interlinked short stories set in Tokyo, written from both the human and feline perspectives. But don't let the size fool you, there is emotional density here. Not the kind that knocks you over, but the kind that sits beside you quietly and lets you unravel. Just like a cat does.
Each story is rooted in the everyday: a lonely young woman in her first job, a painter trying to find her way, a manga aficionado who lost her best friend and is in need of confidence. And alongside each of them are their cats.
But these aren't just cat companions. They are narrators, observers, quiet sentinels of their humans' inner lives. Chobi, the stray-turned-roommate; Cookie, the shy observer; Blanche, who still remembers being a kitten and watching her mother; Kuro, who dominated his territory but melted whenever another needed help. Each feline voice brings something soft but knowing. A sort of patient watchfulness. Even Jon the dog, with all his wisdom and love for the creatures around him, is portrayed as the all-knowing figure the cats are deeply attached to, especially Chobi.
In one story, Chobi watches his human grow lonelier by the day, unable to help her beyond being present. He muses, "She looked tired. So, I rubbed against her leg." That line carries the entire book's philosophy: that the act of staying, of simply being, is often more powerful than trying to fix.
There is no grand drama here. The biggest events are small heartbreaks, like a job that feels hollow, a lover's absence, a memory that lingers. Yet, when told through the dual gaze of human and cat, they feel profound. Like when grieving Miyu sits in a dark apartment thinking she is completely alone, only to realise her cat is watching, listening and silently loving her.
The cats don't just narrate the present; they carry their own memories too.
In one of the most affecting narratives, the cats of different women are revealed to be connected—littermates, separated early but dreaming of each other across time, or meeting by chance on neighbouring streets. It adds a soft strand of speculative magic to an otherwise grounded world. Not fantasy exactly, but a reminder that cats move through time, and us, differently.
There is also humour here, gentle and cat-like. One of the narrators complains about being picked up like a loaf of bread. Another remarks on how little their human understands despite being so "smart" in the human world. These glimpses into feline thought are light and familiar. Anyone who has ever been judged by a cat will recognise the tone.
But the heart of the book is its deep compassion. Not just for cats, but for women.
Each human character is dealing with quiet sorrow, isolation, or uncertainty. They are not broken, just tired. And in a world that doesn't ask them how they are doing, their cats always know. The cats don't always understand the human specifics, but they recognise sadness. They notice routines. And most of all, they stay.
She and Her Cat doesn't try to be loud. And that is its strength.
It lets the emotions trickle in, like sunlight on fur, until you realise you have been softened by it. The final story ties the narrative threads into something quietly beautiful. It is not neat, but it is connected.
The women don't necessarily find happiness, not all of them at least. But they find resilience. They also find love but not the one they perhaps hoped for. Instead, it is unexpected and unconditional.
I didn't cry reading this book. I smiled, a lot, the whole way through my journey. Every flight to, through, and back from China, it was like I had a hanger in my mouth as I flipped through each page.
Because I knew—I recognised the weight of a paw on the chest when the world feels heavy. I knew the look in a cat's eyes when they sense you are falling apart. They pretend not to notice; they just curl closer.
If you have ever loved a cat, or been loved by one, this book won't surprise you. It will just feel like home.
Naziba Basher is a journalist at The Daily Star.
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