Silence followed our laughter. Almost like a truth in a joke, that comment persisted.
Maybe Muffin was mad. Or worried. Confounded.
It could have been that he didn’t feel safe enough to bond with us. Muffin came from a local shelter two weeks after arriving in Sydney. In those days, we were still sorting out jobs, acquaintances, and even which side to drive on.
Comfort and habit were muffin’s purpose. Instead, he delivered scratched couches, disregarded food bowls, and the unsettling feeling of being judged. Muffin wasn’t hostile, but he distrusted us.
He hid under the bed for hours. He sometimes sat on the windowsill peering outside like he didn’t belong. The first three months, we could only pet him when he was asleep.
After another failed treat attempt, I sat on the kitchen floor on Saturday afternoon disappointed. Daniel, my husband, brought two tea mugs and sat alongside me. “He’s probably just surviving.
Think about it. Meet new folks. New smells.
New life. It sounds like us, right? He was right.
Muffin has lived in two homes before the shelter. The volunteers claimed he was “selectively affectionate” but not difficult. Maybe we didn’t let him choose us.
Instead of cuddling him or retrieving him from under the bed, we placed a folded blanket and goodie in the living room corner that night. Sitting on the floor, we listened to a soothing playlist and simply existed. No calls, no action.
Simple presence. It took 10 days. We spent ten days in silence every night, with a treat on the folded blanket.
Muffin emerged from beneath the bed on the eleventh night, stretched, and carefully approached the cover. After sniffing the treat, he sat facing us. I nearly cried.
From then on, things changed. He still wouldn’t let us touch him, but he was more often in the room. He napped two meters from my desk when I worked from home.
Not cuddled up in my lap as I’d imagined, but he was. Watching. Trusting.
Daniel left his cereal bowl unattended one morning. Muffin sprang up, licked some milk, and gazed at me as if daring me to react. I didn’t.
I grinned. His first purr came that day. A beat created over months.
Muffin was no Instagram cuddly kitty. He liked independence. He sometimes jumped up and leant against my leg while I read on the couch.
Muffin would curl up on the rug in front of Daniel while he watched TV, close enough to feel like family but far enough to keep his terms. It was flawed. He kept scratching couch corners.
He growled at visiting pals. He was ours, and we became his slowly. Daniel was offered a job in Brisbane a year into our new existence.
Bigger company, better compensation. But it required another move. It tore us.
The transfer would be disruptive, especially now that Muffin felt protected. Weeks of debate. Our final decision was to leave gracefully.
We designed for Muffin’s comfort. We bought the same blanket, maintained his previous toys, and drove instead of flying to avoid overwhelming him. Muffin surprised us at the new place.
He was visible. He examined cautiously but wasn’t scared as before. He claimed the windowsill by week’s end.
Then something unexpected happened. Our new neighbor, Sylvia, in her fifties, sometimes left a saucer of water near our fence. We believed it was for birds, but she grinned when she saw Muffin looking from the window.
“That one’s for him,” she added. Had a cat named Rusty. After his death three years ago, she hadn’t adopted again.
Muffin brought her something back. She started visiting, first to say hi over the fence. After knocking gently, she asked if she might bring Muffin some cooked chicken.
We were surprised he liked her. Let her pet him. When Daniel was on a work trip, Sylvia came for tea.
She talked about her late husband Rusty and how lonely the place was. “I don’t need another pet,” she added, “but it’s nice to feel needed again, even by a neighbor’s cat.”
We let Muffin visit her garden after that. We constructed a small gap in the fence for him to sit in her lap and just be there.
Months passed. A message was slipped under our door one night. Sylvia fell.
She was hospitalized when her niece left the note. Next day, we brought her favorite lemon cookies. She looked fragile, but her eyes lighted up when we told her Muffin had been resting near her garden every day since she left.
She smiled softly, “I’ll be back.” “He expects me.”
She recovered but slowed down. She needed a walker and part-time nursing. Muffin kept visiting her.
He cuddled with her in the sun several afternoons. Sylvia died quietly in her sleep a year later. Her niece invited us to the little memorial.
A framed photo of her and Muffin was brought. It was one of her few recent smiles. Muffin received a donation to the shelter he came from and a cat-shaped garden statuary on our shared fence in her will.
Things returned to normal, yet something was changed. We met someone we wouldn’t have without Muffin. A few months later, Daniel’s brother contacted.
He had to relocate abroad for work and couldn’t take Lily, his six-year-old daughter, for the first several months. He requested her to remain with us because their parents couldn’t help. We paused.
We knew nothing about kids. Lily arrived one wet Friday with a small knapsack and Mr. Bun, a plush rabbit.
The first night she was quiet. Sat on the guest bed, looking. While Muffin normally avoided new people, he entered her room, leaped on the bed, and cuddled next her like he was waiting.
After that, they were inseparable. Lily struggled—missing her dad, crying at night. Muffin never left her.
She read to him, stroked him, and whispered like only he understood. I once asked her why she loved Muffin. She added, “He’s quiet but listens.
He doesn’t mind my sadness.”
When her dad returned, she grabbed Muffin so close I thought he’d wriggle, but he just chilled and let her enjoy it. Our house felt bigger once she went. Quieter.
But we changed. All of us. Daniel and I watched Muffin stretch out at sunset on the deck.
“You know,” I replied, “we thought we adopted him. He may have chosen us for a reason.”
Daniel grinned. “He wasn’t just our cat.
He reminded everyone to slow down. Be patient. To listen more.”
Funny how life works.
Muffin thought we’d teach him family unity. He eventually taught us. He reminded us love is quiet.
That it grows slowly. Continual presence builds trust, not force. At first, we felt we failed him.
But now I think that quiet little cat made us better partners, neighbors, and even momentarily parents. If you’re battling with a pet, child, or distant relationship, don’t give up. Don’t strain.
Just keep coming. Seat on the floor. Stay still.
Accept love when it’s ready. Sometimes the quietest are the most powerful. Just learn to hear them.
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