The Truth About the Cat Tax

Old Wang sat on his creaky office chair, staring at the constantly refreshing "cat tax" payment records on his screen. This was the third time he had hit the refresh button, and the numbers were climbing like crazy weeds, each one higher than the last. Just a few months ago, who would have thought that this previously obscure Xiaohongshu account would become wildly popular because of a bunch of American netizens paying "cat tax"?

Initially, Old Wang just wanted to post photos of his tabby cat named "Tuanzi", mundane things like "Tuanzi slept all day again," and "Tuanzi ate half my bread." Until one day, an American netizen commented, saying that seeing Tuanzi reminded them of their cat that had recently passed away and they felt healed, adding in broken Chinese, "This cat, I want to pay tax."

Old Wang was stunned for a moment, but quickly replied, "No need, no need, I'm glad you like it." Unexpectedly, the American netizen actually transferred five dollars, with the note "cat tax."

Things unfolded like an uncorked faucet, out of control. More and more American netizens flooded into Old Wang's account, expressing their desire to pay taxes for their deceased or living cats, with various reasons: "Healed by the cat," "This is my cat's endorsement fee," "This is my reward for petting cats every day..." The money in the account snowballed, from the initial few dollars, to dozens of dollars, to hundreds of dollars, and now it was countless.

"Old Wang, your Tuanzi is now an international internet sensation!" said his colleague, Old Li, patting Old Wang's shoulder with a hint of envy and teasing, "I heard you're about to become a multi-millionaire."

Old Wang gave a wry smile, scratching his thinning hair. A multi-millionaire? This money was burning a hole in his pocket. At first, he would still reply to those American netizens, thanking them for their support, but later there were too many of them, so he could only mechanically reply, "Thank you." He felt like a puppet on strings, swept up by this sudden trend, losing his direction.

He tried to talk to his son, Little Wang, about it. After listening, Little Wang adjusted his glasses and said, "Dad, this is called 'emotional premium,' it’s a new type of consumption model in the Internet age. You're operating the cat as an IP, and by emotionally connecting with the audience, you'll naturally get revenue."

"IP? Emotional connection?" Old Wang was confused, feeling like he couldn't keep up with the times.

He looked at the dense comments on the computer screen, mostly written in English he didn't understand, with the occasional phrase in broken Chinese, "I love kitty," "Kitty cute," "Please kiss kitty for me." He suddenly felt that those netizens across the ocean, perhaps, weren't really "paying tax," they were just using a unique way to express their love for cats, and some kind of emotional solace in life.

One evening, Old Wang updated Tuanzi's photo as usual, captioning it, "Tuanzi is getting fatter again today."

The comments section was as lively as ever, but this time, a familiar avatar appeared at the top, noted as "Cat Tax Observer."

"Old Wang, have you noticed that almost none of your fans are actual cat owners?"

Old Wang was stunned. After carefully looking through the avatars, he realized that indeed, most of them were landscape photos, cartoon characters, and even some were meaningless combinations of characters. He had been so focused on the numbers that he completely overlooked this.

"We're just using a kind of performance art to deconstruct this era of rampant consumerism," continued the "Cat Tax Observer," "Those who are flying the flag of ‘loving cats’ are actually completing a ritual, a ritual of escaping reality and seeking self-recognition. And you, Old Wang, you are just a prop in this play, a symbol.”

Old Wang felt a chill down his spine. He looked up at Tuanzi, who was dozing in the corner, seemingly oblivious to all of this, still enjoying its peaceful life. He suddenly realized that he was no different. He had been pushed by this absurd trend but had never truly thought about what it all meant.

He turned off the computer, hugged Tuanzi, gently stroking its soft fur, and whispered, "Tuanzi, let's pay a tax ourselves, to ourselves."

The next day, Old Wang donated all the money in the account to a local stray animal rescue organization.

Little Wang was hopping mad when he found out, "Dad, how could you donate all the money! That was a lot of money!"

Old Wang smiled, pointed out the window, and said, "No matter how much money there is, it can't buy back the peace of mind I have." His gaze fell on a nearby ambulance slowly driving away toward the psychiatric hospital, with hollow faces vaguely visible through its windows.