Miracle of Qiwang: The Kitten Who Chose to Live

It was just after 10 p.m. when I stepped out to walk my dog. That’s when I saw her—a tiny, frail kitten by the roadside. Her fur was dirty and patchy, her steps unsteady. Her skin was in terrible condition. At first, she turned to walk away from us. But when she heard our gentle calls, something shifted. Maybe she sensed our kindness—because she slowly, cautiously walked toward me.

Looking at her fragile little body, I couldn’t begin to guess how long she’d been starving. I rushed home and brought back food. As soon as she tasted it, she devoured every bite—she was truly starving.

The next day, she was still there—waiting in the same spot.

When she heard my voice, she crawled out from under a parked car. My dog sniffed her curiously, and the kitten responded with surprising affection.

That day, I brought water and food specially for her. By the third day, it felt like a gust of wind could knock her over. She barely touched the cat food. So I soaked it in sheep’s milk to help her eat more easily. She tried a few bites, then looked at me and let out two tiny meows—as if to say “thank you.” Then she buried her face in the bowl and ate with big, hungry mouthfuls.

This kitten was all skin and bones. I already had many cats at home, so I couldn’t bring her back with me—not yet. But I returned to feed her every day.

By day four, her appetite was better. She still ate slowly, but she was eating more. I told a friend about her, and they promised to help. Slowly, the little one began to regain some energy—enough to meow at me when I arrived.

I looked at her and thought: once, she must have been a truly beautiful cat.

On day five, she lay on my feet and purred. Her stomach was so thin I could see the blood vessels beneath her skin. Days before we met, there had been heavy rainstorms—had she been hiding under a car then, too?

Despite all she’d been through, she was incredibly affectionate. She would always rub against my legs when I came to see her. I could pick her up with one hand and barely feel her weight.

On day six, my friend and I decided—it was time to take her to the hospital. She was too thin, and the weather was getting worse. My friend brought her favorite food—canned cat meat. The moment she tasted it, she began eating like she hadn’t in weeks.

“As long as she’s willing to eat,” my friend said, “there’s hope.”

While she was eating, we gently brought over a pet carrier. Then the security guard approached and told us he’d seen her too. Knowing we were trying to help moved him deeply.

After she finished eating, we opened the carrier. To our surprise, the little one walked in by herself. She knew we meant no harm.

We named her, Qiwang—meaning Miracle Hope.

At the hospital, she cooperated with every treatment. She ate heartily. After a few days of care, we brought her home. With daily meals and moxibustion therapy, her condition began to improve. She lay quietly for IV drips like a little child. Despite her weakness, whenever she heard our voices, she would try her best to crawl toward us.

As long as she responded—everything was worth it.

Soon, she would have friends. Other cats who, like her, had once known pain. They welcomed her gently.

But by day sixteen, we saw her energy dip again. We took her back to the hospital.

The diagnosis was heartbreaking: **severe liver damage and FIP**—Feline Infectious Peritonitis.

We immediately started her on fluids and specialized medication. Even when the treatments hurt, she only let out soft meows. She ate every bite of food—she wanted to live.

The doctor told us she had likely been a stray for far too long. Healing her would take time. But as long as she kept eating, she would be okay.

And she did.

By day twenty, her belly was round again. Her bloodwork showed improvement—her antibody levels had passed the critical threshold. We were overjoyed.

Due to her liver damage, she digested food slowly. So, following the vet’s advice, we started her on the most expensive medicine we could afford—hoping she’d live up to her name.

And she did.

Miracle survived—through her own will and everyone’s love.

By day twenty-seven, we went fishing to celebrate her progress. We sat by the pond until our skin burned. But it was worth it. When we came home and cooked the fresh fish, Qiwang couldn’t wait. I removed the bones myself. She ate like a lioness, and the other cats joined her in celebration.

By day thirty, she had become more clingy than ever. She followed us around like a shadow—completely trusting now. She could jump on the sofa, walk steadily, and her skin was healing. Day by day, **Qiwang was becoming beautiful again.**

By day sixty-six, she could even catch food mid-air from my hand. Her energy had returned. And with it, her playful, mischievous spirit.

I’m so grateful I found her.

By day sixty-nine, **Qiwang was a completely healthy cat.** She cleaned herself, napped in sunbeams, and her appetite never faded. Her fur was growing back in soft waves. There are many days ahead for her now—and she’ll only get happier.

By day eighty-four, feeding her was still the highlight of her day—and mine.

But on day eighty-nine, her curiosity got the best of her. She ate a toad.

I found her foaming at the mouth and rushed her to the hospital. She recovered, thankfully.

By day ninety-eight, her transformation was stunning. You wouldn’t believe she was the same cat we found on the roadside.

By day 184, after half a year together, Qiwang had grown confident, a little spoiled, and wonderfully mischievous. And I loved her even more for it.

Qiwang—Miracle—wasn’t just her name. It was her story.