If you ever needed a reason to smile in the middle of a hectic 2021, look no further than the whimsical world of Makoto Oya. This Japanese videographer turned everyday moments with his two mischievous furballs into an internet sensation that still haunts our “feel‑good” playlists today. In this post we’ll:
Grab a cup of tea, a comfy pillow, and get ready for a nostalgic cat‑cuddle session.
This is the tricky part. Makoto Oya is protective of his copyright, and many 2021 full-length videos were taken down due to DMCA claims or were moved to exclusive platforms. As of 2025, here is where you can locate the 2021 archive:
Makoto Oya lived on the third floor of an aging apartment block that leaned toward the river like an old man listening for rain. His life moved in small, careful rhythms: morning coffee, a stack of translation work, and long evenings editing videos. What people saw online as Makoto’s talent — the uncanny ability to make cats look like private philosophers — started, in truth, as a way to keep loneliness from filling the apartment’s corners.
In March 2021 he found a stray tabby in the alley behind a noodle shop. The cat was all sharp angles and amber eyes, a creature who treated kindness like a new currency and accepted it on strict terms. Makoto named him Sen — a single-syllable word for fortune. Sen arrived with a limp and a dignity that refused to be patched. He slept like a baron on Makoto’s futon, stole sardines from bowls meant for visitors, and insisted on watching rain puddles through the window with Makoto at his shoulder.
Makoto already kept a pocket camera for translation work and documentation. One night in April, when the downpour hit and the city huddled under umbrellas, he filmed Sen perched at the windowsill, whiskers trembling as the neon reflections blurred on the glass. The clip was simple: a still frame of the cat’s profile, a doorbell’s distant echo, the city breathing. Makoto cut the footage, slowed the frame, and overlaid a soft piano loop. He uploaded it with a tentative title: “Sen Watches the Rain — 2021.” Nobody expected much.
People began to notice.
Viewers wrote that Sen looked like he was trying to remember someone; others said he held the whole evening in his eyes. The comments multiplied gently, like conversations that fit into elevator rides and bus stops. Encouraged, Makoto filmed more: Sen discovering a paper bag, Sen rolling on tatami, Sen perching like a general on the balcony railing. Each video was short, unflashy, edited with restraint. Makoto preferred patience to spectacle. He cut away the clumsy hands and left the small, peculiar gestures that made cats seem almost human — the twitch of a tail as if punctuating a thought, the tilt of a head when a sunbeam rearranged itself.
By summer, the channel had a modest following: people who wanted quiet in a world that kept accelerating. Makoto titled the playlist “Cat Videos 2021 — Full,” a nod to simplicity and the tidy completeness he felt when the day’s clips were arranged. He never staged scenes; he waited until the honest moment arrived and then, as if translating, he captured it.
A turning point came in August when a college student stitched one of Makoto’s clips into a short film about memory. The film won a small festival prize. For a while, Makoto watched the numbers climb and felt oddly uncomfortable: admiration on the internet rarely came without demands. Fans asked for livestreams, behind-the-scenes footage, collaborations. Brands sent polite emails. Makoto declined most offers. He wanted to protect the set of rules he and Sen had developed: no forced poses, no props that made Sen uncomfortable, no edits that lied about the moment.
The pressure was not only external. Sen’s limp deepened in September. The vet’s face was kind and measured; diagnoses translated into charts and medication names. Makoto learned how to hold medicine in trembling hands and how to explain, slowly and plainly, to a creature who understood schedules more than prognosis. He filmed less, because some days the apartment felt enormous and hollow, and Sen slept in a corner like a closed book.
On an evening in late October, after a day of wind that rattled the windowframes, Sen vanished for a few hours. Makoto’s stomach made a sound like a drawer sliding open and closed. He searched the stairwell and the alley, calling until his voice became another city noise. When he returned, exhausted and wet, he found Sen perched on the bicycle seat outside, tail flicking as if nothing had happened. The clip Makoto took then — Sen blinking calmly against the streetlight — went viral in a way his other videos hadn’t. People wrote back in paragraphs: apologies they had never asked to make for their own loneliness, stories about grandparents and small mercies. The comment threads turned into a delicate communal living room.
Winter brought other kinds of closeness. Makoto filmed Sen curled like comma marks on the futon, Sen peering at a candle flame, Sen pawing at a packet of green tea. He added short captions — single phrases in English and Japanese: "Listening to the city," "Remembering the taste of sun." The captions did not explain so much as annotate a mood. Viewers began sending postcards, drawings of cats, messages in unfamiliar languages that translated, roughly, into thanks. makoto oya cat videos 2021 full
On December 31, 2021, Makoto posted a final compilation titled simply “Makoto Oya Cat Videos 2021 — Full.” It was thirty minutes of smallness: close-ups of whiskers, the slow art of cleaning, the quiet choreography of sleeping next to a human who typed and sometimes hummed. He included a short title card at the end: “For Sen, who taught me how to listen.” He hit publish without ceremony and then sat by the window while the city celebrated with distant booms and bright papers in the gutters.
The comments that followed were the most tender of the year. People described watching the compilation during late-night study sessions, in hospital rooms, on long flights. Someone posted a translation of a line from Makoto’s gentle captions into a language he did not know; he read it and felt the strange warmth of being understood across oceans.
Nothing extravagant came of the fame. Makoto did not need it. He kept his editing rhythms, the little compromises that kept Sen comfortable, and the viewers who returned were mostly quiet company. What changed was a subtle rearrangement of the hours: he received mail from faraway places, he learned how to say “thank you” in a dozen languages, and sometimes a follower would send a photograph of their own cat asleep in precisely the same pose Sen favored.
In the spring of 2022, Sen’s limp grew heavier. Makoto made a video titled “Autumn, Again,” though the leaves were green outside. He filmed Sen from a distance and avoided dramatic angles. He wanted the footage to be true, to feel like a friend’s memory rather than a cinematic eulogy. When Sen passed in early April, Makoto posted one short clip: Sen’s paw, soft and peaceful, against the futon. The caption read: “Thank you.”
People replied with quiet stories and promises to watch the old videos when they missed their own small companions. The channel, what remained online of “Cat Videos 2021 — Full,” continued to exist as a small archive of attention — twenty minutes of ordinary grace that strangers could return to like a streetlamp at night.
Years later, viewers still found Makoto’s videos and paused, briefly, to breathe. For some, Sen was only pixels and fur; for others, he was the momentary proof that watching another being with care could change the shape of a day. Makoto kept making videos in his modest way, and he sometimes laughed at the idea that something as quiet as a cat could make the world a little softer. If you ever needed a reason to smile
If you watch “Makoto Oya: Cat Videos 2021 — Full,” you will not find drama or spectacle. You will find a practice: the steady work of noticing. And if, for half an hour, you let your breathing fall in with Sen’s slow paws, you might leave feeling slightly less like an island — which, in the end, was exactly what Makoto hoped his videos might do.
I’m unable to provide direct links or full video downloads for “Makoto Oya cat videos 2021” due to copyright and platform policies. However, I can guide you on how to find them:
| # | Video Title | Length | YouTube Link* | Why It’s a Gem | |---|-------------|--------|---------------|----------------| | 1 | “Morning Mayhem: Kuro’s First Coffee” | 3:42 | Watch here | Kuro (the black cat) discovers the smell of fresh coffee and attempts a daring leap onto the kitchen counter. The slow‑mo replay and Oya’s subtle captions make it both funny and oddly poetic. | | 2 | “Hide‑and‑Seek Champion: Mimi’s Closet Caper” | 4:17 | Watch here | Mimi (the tabby) squeezes into a tiny sweater drawer, prompting a mini‑detective montage that feels straight out of a Pixar short. | | 3 | “Rainy Day Reflections” | 5:01 | Watch here | A rain‑spattered window becomes a stage for both cats as they watch their reflections, accompanied by a dreamy lo‑fi soundtrack. The video’s calming vibe made it a top “study with cats” pick. | | 4 | “The Great Toy Chase – 2021 Remix” | 2:58 | Watch here | Oya remixed footage from previous years with a fresh electronic beat, turning a simple feather‑toy chase into a kinetic, music‑video‑style spectacle. | | 5 | “Sushi Night: Kuro vs. the Salmon Roll” | 3:12 | Watch here | A sushi‑making session goes hilariously awry when Kuro decides the salmon roll is a personal toy. The blend of culinary art and cat‑antics is pure gold. | | 6 | “Midnight Zoomies – Full 10‑Minute Compilation” | 10:00 | Watch here | For the ultimate binge, this compilation stitches together the most frenetic midnight zoomies of both cats, set to an upbeat J‑pop track. | | 7 | “Goodnight, Kuro & Mimi” (ASMR Edition) | 6:24 | Watch here | A soothing bedtime routine captured in crystal‑clear ASMR—purring, soft paws, and the gentle rustle of blankets. Perfect for sleep‑aid playlists. |
*All links point to Makoto Oya’s official YouTube channel (the only legal source for the full, uncut videos).
Oya’s genius is making the mundane magical. The 2021 collection features a famously long segment where a tabby names "Mame" stares at a blank wall for 90 seconds. Just as you question your life choices, a tiny gecko appears. The chase is on. You forgive the 90 seconds of stillness.
If you’re looking for more fan‑generated content, check out the subreddit r/MakotoOyaCats—it’s a treasure trove of edits, fan art, and even a few “cat‑interpretations” of Oya’s original captions. Grab a cup of tea, a comfy pillow,