She was round like a small moon, orbiting Gate 2. A sunbeam creature, a deity of idleness, sprawled across the pavement, where students passed and paused to greet her. Bochog—soft, fat, magnificent—the queen of stray cats, the empire of concrete her throne. Every day, she’d waddle out from behind the guard post, tail flicking like a clock, demanding tribute in gentle hands and leftover food.

Everyone knew her. Everyone loved her. Students in their green and gold uniforms rushing to class would pause just to kneel before her. As if she were an altar. As if her purr could absolve something.

We loved her in that quiet, collective way you love things that ask for nothing. She was always there: the soft punctuation in the morning rush, the weight of her body a comfort, proof that something in this city still rested without fear. She was a myth in motion—the cat who was owned by no one but belonged to everyone.

Until one day, she didn’t.

No paw prints on the asphalt. No shadow slinking past 7/11. Just the hollow where she used to nap, still warm in memory, but cold in truth. People asked around. Some said she was adopted. Some said she was gone. The guards shrugged. The wind answered no one.

Now, Gate 2 feels larger, emptier—as if the absence of her body carved out a silence too big for the street to hold. Students still glance at the spot where she once rested, half expecting that familiar curve of fur, that lazy blink that meant you were safe here, and I was, too.

Maybe she found a softer world. Maybe she passed away where no one could see, the way animals do—quietly, with dignity, without the need for mourning. But I like to think she still walks somewhere, belly swaying, tail high, haunting the places that loved her.

Sometimes, when the afternoon light hits the pavement just right, you can almost see her, that familiar round shadow, that gentle ghost of fur and warmth—as if she never left at all.

Bochog, patron saint of strays and students, I hope you’re sleeping under kinder skies. I hope someone still feeds you. I hope you’re still fat, still warm, still loved.

- Beatrice Diane D. Bartolome

(Illustration by Patricia Anne Perez/FEU Advocate)