From Flow to the Future: The Last Cat on Earth Remembers the Rails

After winning hearts (and an Oscar) with the animated film Flow, the last cat on Earth has become an unexpected symbol of post-apocalyptic resilience. In a drowned world where trains no longer run and the sea has swallowed the cities, only one traveller still follows the old lines.

RAILTARGET continues its creative series with a rare, reflective interview—this time with the feline protagonist of Flow. A silent wanderer of flooded landscapes and rusted railways, the cat shares memories of a world once bound by tracks and timetables, now reduced to islands and tides.

While we worked on Flow the cat didn't have a name. We just called it the cat. I've heard from multiple people that they think that it's name is Flow. People have even named their cats Flow now! So I think we can call the cat Flow! pic.twitter.com/4t6g7w9Ri8

— Gints Zilbalodis (@gintszilbalodis) February 11, 2025

Thank you for speaking with us. Now that the waters have receded and a new life has begun, why revisit the journey?

Flow: Because memory is a kind of map. I carry it with me. Even now, when the days are quiet and green things have started growing again, I sometimes wake up thinking I’m still drifting. I think it’s important to speak of what came before—not to stay in it, but to mark the path behind us. The world was different then. Wider, lonelier, quieter in strange ways. But I don’t want the rhythm of that time forgotten.

You’ve mentioned walking along old railway tracks during your travels. What drew you to them?

Flow: I never saw a train—not a real one, not moving. But the tracks were there, under the water, tangled in roots, half-buried in sand. They felt... important. Like something once moved with certainty. When the world was drifting and dissolving, the tracks were the only things that stayed straight. Even broken, they held direction. I followed them not because I thought they would lead me somewhere, but because they remembered where they’d been.

Did they give you a sense of purpose?

Flow: Not at first. At first, I walked just to stay ahead of the flood, to stay dry, to stay alive. But eventually, the walking became something else. The tracks reminded me of movement with meaning. Of places once connected. And even though I had companions—and they were good companions—there were stretches where I was the only one awake. In those moments, following the tracks helped. It made the silence feel less hollow.

Were there any moments that stand out along those tracks?

Flow: Yes. A station roof, still standing above the water, with a tree growing through it. We stopped there once, all of us. The wind blew through the canopy like breath. It felt like a place people had waited once—maybe for a train, or for someone to return. I found a sign in the weeds, bent but still painted. I couldn’t read it, but it looked like it meant something. I remember curling up beside it that night, feeling for the first time that the world might still hold memories worth keeping.

The film showed your journey as full of struggle but also companionship. How did that change you?

Flow: I used to think survival was a solo act. You move, you eat, you avoid the deep water. But then I met others who didn’t run from—or after—me. The dog, the lemur, the bird—each of them brought something I didn’t know I was missing. We didn’t speak, but we listened. We moved together. Companionship doesn’t erase loss, but it steadies you in it. I’m not alone anymore. I don’t think I ever truly was.

The ocean replaced the railways in connecting the world during the flood. Do you think the sea has become the new map?

Flow: The sea doesn’t connect like tracks did. It’s slower, quieter. It washes things away. Tracks used to pull places toward each other. The sea only shows you what’s left. But maybe now, as the land returns, the sea is learning a new rhythm too. And we’re learning how to live in between things—between land and water, past and future. Maybe that’s enough.

And now? Do you still follow the tracks?

Flow: Sometimes. Not to chase something, but to remember. They remind me that movement can have meaning, even if you don’t know the destination. I still follow paths, but I don’t walk alone now. And when we rest, I still prefer a patch of rusted steel beneath my paws. It’s warm in the sun. It remembers things I don’t need to explain.