My Neighbor’s Cat Thinks I’m Its Owner Now

It started with a meow.

A single, innocent meow.

At the time, I didn’t realize that meow was a legal contract in cat law, binding me for life to an arrangement I never agreed to. If I had, I might’ve shut my window, moved to another city, or learned how to meow back in a way that screamed, “Wrong house, furry overlord.”

But alas, I was weak. I offered a tiny “Aw, hi there!” in return, and that… was how it began.

Day 1: The Visit

I was standing in the kitchen, holding a spoonful of peanut butter over the sink (don’t ask), when I heard a delicate thump followed by a screech that sounded vaguely like judgment.

There it was. A cat. On my windowsill. Looking at me like I’d failed a test I didn’t study for.

I blinked. It blinked.

“Shoo,” I whispered.

It yawned and walked inside like it paid rent.

“Excuse me?”

It rubbed itself against my leg and immediately jumped onto the counter, knocking over a mug I didn’t even know I owned.

I turned around to get a broom. By the time I returned, the cat was on my couch. Cleaning itself. Like this was **its** home and I was just the hired help.

Day 2: Ownership Denial

I tried returning the cat.

“Hey, Linda?” I said, knocking on my neighbor’s door.

“Oh, Fluffy’s over there again?” she asked, completely unfazed.

“Yes. Yes, she is. She broke a mug. She also demanded I open tuna.”

Linda laughed like I had just told her the most adorable joke. “Oh, she’s just picky about people. If she likes you, that’s a huge compliment!”

“Compliment?” I echoed. “She headbutted my laptop off the table.”

“She’s bonding with you.”

“She used my laundry basket as a litter box.”

“She’s feeling safe in your home.”

I stared blankly at Linda, who was sipping a green smoothie with the confidence of someone who had clearly offloaded her cat onto an unsuspecting fool—**me**.

Day 4: Hostage Negotiations

Fluffy had now claimed the top half of my bed. She would sleep spread out like a royal corpse, and if I dared to move during the night, she’d slap my face—not with claws, just with contempt.

I tried gently pushing her off once.

I have scars now. Emotional ones.

She also refused basic cat food. She only wanted the fancy packets that smell like a seafood buffet for billionaires. I found this out after spending \$37 on various wet foods, only to have her dramatically bury them with imaginary dirt like they were offensive to her lineage.

“Oh, so now I’m your personal chef,” I muttered as I poured some salmon pâté into a ceramic dish. Yes, I said dish. She refused bowls.

Day 7: Acceptance

I’d stopped fighting it.

I bought her a scratching post, even though she preferred the side of my couch.

I set up a little cushion by the window because “her spot” needed to be comfortable.

I referred to her as “my girl” when talking to friends.

Yes, I knew she wasn’t technically mine.

Yes, I knew Linda was still her legal guardian.

But Linda was living her best life, taking yoga classes and baking sourdough. Meanwhile, I was trimming Fluffy’s nails and brushing her fur while she purred like a diesel engine.

“Do you… want me to adopt her?” I texted Linda one night, not because I wanted to but because I felt legally and morally trapped.

Linda replied: “Oh no, she’s definitely still mine. She just likes to visit :)”

**VISIT?!** Ma’am, this cat gets mail here now.

Day 10: The Betrayal

That morning, Fluffy didn’t come.

At first, I thought, *Okay, cool, break time! I can finally sit on my own couch without a tail in my cereal.*

But as the hours passed… I started to worry.

What if she got stuck somewhere? What if Linda took her to a *real* cat therapist and the therapist told her I was a toxic presence? What if she moved on… to a new host?

I stared longingly out the window, clutching a toy mouse I had bought against my better judgment.

And then—like a furry vision from heaven—she appeared. Walking across my lawn like a lioness returning from war. She paused, locked eyes with me, and meowed.

I opened the door.

She walked past me and pooped in my shoe.

Love is complicated.

Day 14: My Cat? Your Cat? OUR Cat?

By now, my house looked like a cat café. Toys, scratching pads, feather wands… even a tiny hoodie I bought off Etsy that said “Meow Boss.”

Fluffy tolerated the hoodie for exactly 43 seconds, during which I took 97 blurry photos and texted them to everyone in my contacts list.

Linda popped by one afternoon. She walked into my house, saw Fluffy curled up on a fleece blanket, and said, “Wow, she really *has* moved in.”

“Yeah, she has,” I said, dead-eyed, holding a lint roller.

“You know, this is great for me,” Linda continued cheerfully. “I’ve been traveling more and it’s just so nice knowing she’s happy and cared for!”

“She peed on my tax documents.”

Linda laughed. “Aren’t cats so quirky?”

“Linda, she locked me out of my own bathroom yesterday.”

Day 16: The Intervention

My friends staged an intervention.

“Dude,” said Mark, “you’ve canceled three game nights because of the cat.”

“She gets anxious when strangers come over,” I replied defensively.

“She’s not your girlfriend, man,” said Tanya.

“She scratched my ex’s name off a photo,” I said. “That has to mean something.”

They exchanged concerned glances.

Day 20: Full Cat Dad

I ordered a custom mug that said “Fluffy’s Human.”

I changed my Instagram bio to “Full-time writer, part-time cat concierge.”

I downloaded an app that translated cat meows into human speech. (It cost \$4.99. It’s trash. I still use it.)

At this point, I was waking up at 6 a.m. to feed her. She now had scheduled nap zones in each room of my apartment, all designated with hand-written signs.

She responded to meows, ignored my voice, and still refused any toy that cost less than \$20.

She had me.

Mind, body, soul… and bank account.

Day 25: The Truth

One night, after a long day of serving my feline queen, I sat next to her on the couch.

“Fluffy,” I said, “I think I love you.”

She looked at me, stretched dramatically, and sneezed on my pillow.

A moment later, she climbed into my lap and started purring. A slow, deep rumble.

“Okay,” I said, smiling despite myself. “You win.”

And just like that, I accepted the truth.

She wasn’t my cat.

But I was *definitely* her human.

Epilogue: The Collar

A week later, a package arrived.

From Linda.

Inside was a brand-new pink collar.

The tag read:

“Fluffy – If found, return her to her favorite human next door 💕