Credit Score and the Disappearing Cat

At four in the morning, I woke punctually. The sky outside was an unimaginative grey, like an old rag washed over and over. Making coffee, toasting two slices of bread – this was an unshakeable ritual. Usually at this time, "Mustard" – my cat, a fellow with a mottled coat and eyes that always held a hint of philosophical contemplation – would appear promptly at the kitchen door, meowing in a tone that was just right, neither fawning nor distant, reminding me it was his breakfast time.

But not today.

The kitchen doorway was empty, only the faint morning light cutting geometric shapes on the floor. Mustard's food bowl was empty, and the water in his water bowl had barely been touched. A sensation like a block of ice sliding into my stomach slowly spread. I called his name a few times; the sound felt abrupt and foolish in the overly quiet room.

Mustard had disappeared.

Like a record skipping midway through a song, my daily routine was abruptly shattered. I began searching the apartment, checking behind the bookshelf, inside the washing machine drum, every corner where he might curl up for a nap. Nothing. He was like a gust of wind, or an overly vivid dream, vanished into thin air.

I put up 'lost cat' posters, the photo showing a rare moment of Mustard's docility. I asked all the neighbors, mostly receiving polite headshakes and "good luck". Old Wang, the security guard downstairs, however, offered an unexpected line of thought. Cigarette dangling from his lips, he squinted at the notice I'd posted on the bulletin board and said slowly, "Little Yang, how's your 'Credit Score' lately?"

I paused. Credit Score? What did that damn thing have to do with a lost cat? In this city, the Credit Score was as omnipresent as air, needed for renting apartments, getting loans, even making reservations at some restaurants. Those with high scores moved freely; those with low scores faced obstacles at every turn. I knew my score wasn't top-tier, but it certainly wasn't low enough to disrupt my life. Probably just average, the kind that gets lost in the crowd.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

Old Wang blew a smoke ring, the smoke like some cheap omen. "The community's running a 'Civilized Pet' pilot program recently," he said. "Losing a cat, maybe... hmm... it's related to the score. The system might think you're guilty of 'poor management,' which could affect your rating. Or maybe... some services, you can't use them if your score isn't high enough."

His words landed in my heart like a string of cold keys, clanging. Poor management? I prepared Mustard's favorite canned fish every day, groomed him regularly, held my breath when he slept on my lap. That's poor management? But Old Wang's words weren't entirely baseless. This city always found incomprehensible ways to quantify everything in life, package it up, and slap a numerical label on it.

Over the next few days, the search for Mustard became increasingly bizarre. I tried to inquire at the city's "Lost and Found Center (Pet Division)," only to be told I needed a Credit Score of at least 750 to access the advanced database search. My score was 748. Two points short. It was as frustrating as failing an exam by one point, only more absurd. The staff member, behind glass, looked at me with the kind of expression reserved for a statistically inevitable "low probability event," and politely suggested I first "improve my overall personal quality and community contribution level."

Improve quality? Contribution level? I just wanted to find my cat.

I tried posting online, only to discover that some major pet forums required linking your Credit Score to post. If your score was below a certain threshold, posts were automatically flagged as "low-value information" and hidden. My posts vanished without a trace.

It felt like something straight out of a Kafka novel, yet tinged with Wang Xiaobo's brand of dark humor. A cat's disappearance, tangled up with that damn number? It was more absurd than a nonconformist pig. I felt like I was running in a huge game with vague rules, the referee always invisible, while the numbers on the scoreboard manipulated everything unseen. Mustard, my nonconformist cat – could he too have been "optimized" away by the system because his owner's score wasn't "excellent" enough?

I started losing sleep; the habit of waking at four AM was broken. My mind was stuffed with Credit Score algorithms, the softness of Mustard's fur, and a pent-up anger and helplessness. I even began to wonder if my recent online shopping return, or accidentally running a red light (though I was sure I hadn't), had caused a subtle drop in my score, thereby triggering Mustard's "disappearance protocol"?

The thought was insane, but I couldn't stop it. Like a character in a Murakami novel, I had stepped into some crevice between the everyday and the surreal, the world twisting before my eyes, logic melting away. I started wandering aimlessly at midnight, hoping for a miracle, to see Mustard's familiar figure around some corner. It felt as if Billie Holiday was singing in my ears, mournful and languid, completely out of place in this cold, efficient, digital city.

Just as I was about to give up, preparing to accept the fact that Mustard might be gone forever, even starting to consider joining some boring community volunteer activity to "boost my score," things took a turn.

That evening, dragging my exhausted body home, I opened the door, and there was Mustard, sitting elegantly on the doormat as if he'd just stepped out for a short stroll. He glanced at me, gave a soft "meow" – the same old tone, tinged with that philosophical detachment.

I rushed over and picked him up, checking him for injuries. None. He even seemed a little plumper. The food in his bowl was gone, the water drunk. As if nothing had happened, he rubbed his head against my chin.

Mustard was back. No explanation, no warning.

I immediately logged in to check my Credit Score. Bizarrely, it was now 751. Three points higher than before. Why? These past few days, apart from running around like a headless chicken looking for the cat, I hadn't done anything to "improve my quality." Was it an automatic correction after a system glitch? Or was Mustard's "return" itself a mockery of the credit system? Had he gone somewhere mysterious to "top up" my score before being allowed back?

I would never know the answer.

Holding Mustard, feeling the warmth of his body and his gentle purr, I felt for the first time how concrete, yet how utterly illusory that omnipresent Credit Score system was. It's like a vast net enveloping us all. We struggle to survive within its mesh, thinking we're in control of our lives, yet perhaps we're merely playing roles determined by numbers. And Mustard, he was like a bug disrupting the program, or a messenger from a parallel world, silently mocking it all with his disappearance and return.

The sky outside was still that unimaginative grey, but with Mustard's presence, the room seemed to hold a touch more indescribable color. I opened a new can of fish for him; he ate heartily. Watching him, I suddenly felt that perhaps in this world, increasingly resembling a giant machine, the truly important things – like a cat's purr, a perfect cup of coffee, or those unquantifiable 'wild thoughts' in one's head – are our final weapons against the absurd. As for where those three points came from, who cares? Like Wang Xiaobo said, life is a slow process of getting hammered, but at least for now, my cat was back. And that was enough.