And in a way, it was true. Mochi’s blocked tear ducts didn’t stop him from purring louder than any cat she’d known. They didn’t stop him from sprinting sideways across the living room at 3 a.m. They didn’t stop him from headbutting her coffee mug every single morning.

“Chronic inflammation,” Dr. Lian said. “His ducts are narrowing over time. Some cats just have this anatomy. We can flush them periodically, but… he might always be a leaky boy.”

This time, it was both eyes. Mochi would sit by the window, watching birds with a tragic, weepy expression, as if each sparrow’s song broke his heart. Sophie tried warm compresses. She tried gentle massage along the side of his nose. She even held him over a steamy bathroom shower, hoping to loosen whatever was stuck.

What followed was a marvel of miniature veterinary medicine. Dr. Lian held Mochi gently but firmly, while a technician tilted his head back. She took a tiny, blunt cannula—no bigger than an eyelash—attached to a saline-filled syringe. With a single, delicate motion, she inserted it into the pinhead-sized opening at the inner corner of Mochi’s eye.