A few months ago, my friend and I exchanged keys to each other's apartments in case of emergency. I mainly wanted his keys because he lives in a gated apartment complex, so every time I visited, I had to call him twice to get in — from the gate and from the entrance. Plus I have this fear of forgetting my keys at my parents' home several hundred kilometers away every time I visit, so having someone in town with my keys is also nice.

My friend was planning to go out of town in a few days. We had this conversation:

"You're going to be away for five days, right?" I asked.

"For eight, actually. We'll be away on both weekends," he answered.

"I'll check on your cat then." I didn't even ask if he wanted me to — I just let him know. Maybe let him regret that he trusted me with his key.

"Will you clean out her litter box too?"

"Just leave me all the instructions then."

My friend always makes it a point to tell me that his cat will be fine on her own. He got her an automatic feeder, a water dispenser, a scratching post, a bunch of toys... Sometimes I think he doesn't know what to do with all the money he makes, so he spends it on his cat. He also has a remote control robot vacuum cleaner with a camera, so he can watch his cat remotely, and ask his brother for help in case of emergency. Still, leaving an animal alone for eight days, confined between four walls, seems cruel to me. That's why I said I'd check on it. I don't think my friend needs help. I think the cat would appreciate it.

When I was growing up in my small village, my family always had cats. They were necessary for pest control. We'd be overrun with mice in no time if not for them, considering that my parents had farm animals too. But those cats were always free. They'd come and go. Some of them were even borderline feral — in the summer they'd live and eat outside, and during the winter we had to leave the door open for a few minutes so they'd come, eat and hide in a warm place for the night. Some of them were only afraid of my dad, even though he claimed that he never harmed them. Some of them would be fine being petted. But they wouldn't tolerate being contained — if they needed to go outside, you'd better let them, or they'd meow you to death.

My mother always said, "We don't fix our cats. We let them live a full life." For female cats that meant they'd get pregnant, they'd have kittens, my dad would get rid of some, and leave one or a few with us. It's cruel, I know. Such is life. But female cats would live long lives, up to fifteen years. It was different with male cats. In the spring, in the mating season, they'd go on adventures. They'd get lost for days, sometimes months. It happened more than once: the cat would go missing for more than two months, we'd grieve him, and then he'd come back at the end of the summer. But sometimes they didn't return. They'd get into fights with other male cats for territory. They could get seriously wounded and die. Or they could start a fight in the middle of the road and get hit by a car. I think, generally, our male cats would live four to six years. "But it was a fulfilling life," my mother would say. "If we neutered them, they'd live longer, but they'd get lazy and would spend most of their time on the couch, getting fat and doing nothing." There were a lot of examples of cats like those, but I'm not actually sure if that's truly how it works. Still, what happened with our cats felt natural. They interacted with lots of humans, with other cats, and they'd hunt for prey. They lived like nature intended, and they died like fate decided.

Now, compare that to the life of a house pet. What does it have? A concrete prison. No companions, and one owner, who can take off for days on end. I think that's a pitiful way to life. I know that in some cases, like with guinea pigs in Switzerland, you can't even keep one single pet — you have to get it a companion. Maybe it's fine for a cat to be by itself for several days. I don't really know. But maybe I can make this single cat a little less lonely for a while.