Muffin is my spouse and I’s cat in Australia. To our regret, we struggled to connect with him until my husband joked, “Maybe he’s just mad we didn’t ask his opinion before we adopted him.”
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.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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