The Cat Who Decided to Move In

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It started as an ordinary afternoon. I parked the car, walked into the garage, and there he was: a cat I had never seen before. Not crouched in fear, not darting away like most strays would—just standing there. Calm. Confident. Staring at me with an expression that could only mean one thing: “You’re late on rent.”

He didn’t budge when I approached. Instead, he strutted across the garage like he was conducting a property inspection. Nose to the corners, tail flicking with approval, as though he’d just discovered the perfect new home.

I assumed he belonged to someone nearby, so I asked around. No luck. No collar, no microchip, no missing cat flyers. The neighbors shook their heads. It was as if he had appeared out of thin air, carrying nothing but confidence and an appetite.

That night, he refused to leave. He made himself comfortable, curling up on a stack of boxes like he’d paid for the spot. By morning, he was at the door, meowing loudly—as if to remind me breakfast service was already late.

Day by day, his presence grew more permanent. He followed me around the yard, watched me work in the garage, and even sat outside the kitchen window during dinner, looking in with judgmental eyes. Slowly, it became clear: I hadn’t found a cat. The cat had found me.

And so, without paperwork or permission, I’ve been adopted. He’s not just a visitor anymore—he’s a roommate. A furry little squatter who decided that my home was now his.

Strange thing is, I don’t mind. In fact, I think I’m glad. Because sometimes, the best pets aren’t the ones you pick out. They’re the ones who pick you.