Wildlife
He showed up uninvited—now he runs the garage.
HA
By haphuong10050208Published: 10/02/2026 17:48| 0 Comments
I Don’t Own a Cat… Apparently He Owns Me
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This is not my cat. I have no idea where he came from. Yet here he is—standing in my garage, staring at me like I’m late with rent money. He walks around like he owns the place, acting like we’ve been roommates for years… but I swear we just met.
I asked the neighbors. No one claims him. No collar, no history—just confidence and an appetite.
So apparently, I’ve just been adopted.
He doesn’t knock. He doesn’t introduce himself. He just appears—like a landlord doing surprise inspections. The first time I tried to gently guide him back outside, he blinked at me slowly, offended, then brushed against my leg as if to say, let’s not be dramatic. Now he supervises everything I do in the garage. Changing a lightbulb? He’s there. Taking out trash? He escorts me. Sitting down for a minute? He hops onto a toolbox and stares with quiet authority. I bought one can of cat food “just in case.” That was a mistake. The next evening he arrived five minutes earlier, as if we had a standing dinner reservation. He eats like this is a Michelin-star establishment and I am the staff.
And the wildest part? He never looks unsure. No hesitation. No “please keep me.” Just complete certainty that this is how things are supposed to be. The garage door opens, and he strolls in like he pays utilities. Maybe he doesn’t have a collar or a backstory. Maybe he’s between addresses. But the way he curls up on the warm hood of my car at night, eyes half closed, like he’s decided I’m acceptable housing? Yeah. I didn’t get a cat. I got audited by one—and apparently, I passed.
I asked the neighbors. No one claims him. No collar, no history—just confidence and an appetite.
So apparently, I’ve just been adopted.
He doesn’t knock. He doesn’t introduce himself. He just appears—like a landlord doing surprise inspections. The first time I tried to gently guide him back outside, he blinked at me slowly, offended, then brushed against my leg as if to say, let’s not be dramatic. Now he supervises everything I do in the garage. Changing a lightbulb? He’s there. Taking out trash? He escorts me. Sitting down for a minute? He hops onto a toolbox and stares with quiet authority. I bought one can of cat food “just in case.” That was a mistake. The next evening he arrived five minutes earlier, as if we had a standing dinner reservation. He eats like this is a Michelin-star establishment and I am the staff.
And the wildest part? He never looks unsure. No hesitation. No “please keep me.” Just complete certainty that this is how things are supposed to be. The garage door opens, and he strolls in like he pays utilities. Maybe he doesn’t have a collar or a backstory. Maybe he’s between addresses. But the way he curls up on the warm hood of my car at night, eyes half closed, like he’s decided I’m acceptable housing? Yeah. I didn’t get a cat. I got audited by one—and apparently, I passed.Share this article:
