The Cat Who Never Missed a Class
No one could say for sure when the orange tabby first set paw on Westbrook University’s campus. Some swore it was during the library renovations; others claimed they’d seen him years earlier, napping on the steps of the science building. But one thing everyone agreed on—he never left.
Professor Meow’s Morning Rounds
Every morning, as students hurried across the quad clutching coffee cups, the cat walked his familiar route—through the art courtyard, past the student union, ending at the language building. If a classroom door was left ajar, he’d settle inside as if taking attendance. He didn’t beg for food, didn’t act like a stray. He moved like he belonged there… perhaps more than anyone else.
The Study Companion
He became a silent fixture in student life. During exams, he’d stretch across library tables or curl into backpacks, purring like a steady metronome for anxious minds. Some swore studying near him brought good luck. Others lined up before finals to give him a gentle pat, just in case the rumor was true.
Through the Years
Classes graduated, professors retired, buildings changed—but the cat remained. Alumni returning for reunions would always ask, “Is he still here?” And when they spotted him, slower now but still making his rounds, their faces lit up with nostalgia.
The Disappearance
One winter morning, he wasn’t there. No soft paw-steps in the quad, no curled-up figure in the library. By afternoon, whispers turned into worry. Students searched—checking warm vents, quiet corners, even maintenance sheds. Finally, they found him by the old library, lying in a patch of sunlight, eyes tired but still bright.
A Campus Comes Together
The vet’s verdict was simple: old age. Seventeen years, maybe more. For a cat who’d lived outdoors, it was extraordinary. Students refused to send him away. A faculty office became his new home, with rotating volunteers to feed him, carry him to his favorite bench, and keep him comfortable.
The Last Spring
His patrols grew shorter, naps longer. One afternoon, under drifting cherry blossoms, he lay on the library steps surrounded by students who paused between classes just to be near him. Not long after, he slipped away peacefully in his sleep—right where his story had begun.
Remembering Professor Meow
A bronze plaque appeared by the library:
“In memory of Professor Meow (2008–2023).
He taught us kindness, patience, and that home can be found in unexpected places.”
Flowers, photos, even old exam papers marked “A+” gathered at its base. Alumni funded a scholarship in his name, awarded to students who showed quiet acts of kindness.
The Legacy Lives On
Years later, freshmen who’d never met him learned his story through small traditions—touching the plaque for luck before finals, studying in “his” library corner, or sitting on the bench by the science building now known as “Meow’s seat.”
A New Chapter
Five years after his passing, a small orange kitten wandered onto campus. Thin, shy, and clearly lost, it stopped at the library steps—the very place Professor Meow had claimed as his own. The kitten curled on the bench, purring softly.
No one said it aloud, but everyone shared the same thought:
Some professors never really leave.