We adopted our Missy when she was an adult cat. And she had a temper. If someone opened the fridge and didn’t feed her, she would naturally faint. Right with a bang, on her back and her front legs crossed over her chest. So, my husband goes to the fridge, the cat again falls on the floor. And then he steps right over her like it’s just another Tuesday.
I watch the whole thing and say, “You didn’t even react!”
He shrugs, pours himself a glass of orange juice, and says, “It’s her performance. I’m not giving her an encore.”
Missy opens one eye, sees that he’s not impressed, and lets out the most dramatic sigh I’ve ever heard from a feline. She stays there for a good thirty seconds, unmoving, until I crack and give her a slice of turkey.
She’s up like nothing happened, tail swishing proudly as she struts to her favorite sunny spot by the window. That was Missy. Full of personality, sass, and oddly human emotions.
When we adopted her, we were told she didn’t do well with other animals or kids. She’d been returned twice before. The shelter worker kind of winced when we said we didn’t have any children, but might one day. “Well,” she said, “Maybe by then Missy will mellow out.”
She didn’t.
Missy remained feisty, opinionated, and oddly protective—especially of me.
If my husband and I got into even the tiniest disagreement, Missy would sit between us and glare at him like he’d insulted her grandmother.
Once, during a silly argument about whether or not to get a second cat (my idea), Missy leapt onto the couch between us, placed her paw on my arm, and meowed softly like, “Don’t worry. I got this.”
No second cat entered the house.
She wasn’t cuddly, not in the typical sense. She didn’t sleep on our laps or let us pick her up. But she was always near—watching, judging, waiting for fridge doors to open.
We learned her language. The short “mrrt” that meant she wanted to be followed. The long, drawn-out meow that meant “you’ve disappointed me greatly.” And the silent stare that meant she was planning your downfall if you didn’t bring her snacks.
Missy didn’t love just anybody. That made it special when she chose you.
Over the years, we fell into a routine. My husband started working from home, and Missy made his office chair her personal throne. He’d bring a second chair in, thinking she’d share. She never did.
They grew to respect each other, in a “don’t talk to me before coffee” kind of way.
Then one spring morning, something strange happened. I found Missy sitting outside the guest room door, just… staring. The room had been empty for months. We barely opened it.
When I walked by, she bolted inside and jumped on the bed, meowing loudly. I laughed and said, “What are you doing? You’re not supposed to be in here.”
But she wouldn’t leave. She just sat there, alert.
Two weeks later, I found out I was pregnant.
I cried in that very room, sitting beside her. My emotions were everywhere, and I wasn’t sure if I was ready. But Missy rested her paw on my leg, and it felt like she was saying, you’ll be okay.
We joked that Missy knew before we did. That she was smarter than any of us.
As my belly grew, Missy’s attitude shifted. She stayed closer to me than ever, even curling up beside me in bed—something she never used to do.
One night, I was up with heartburn and pacing around the kitchen. Missy followed me, not begging for food, but just walking beside me, occasionally brushing her side against my leg.
It felt like she was trying to help, in her own grumpy little way.
When the baby arrived—a boy named Nolan—Missy did not faint at the fridge for the first time in her life. We joked that she knew a bigger drama queen had entered the house.
At first, she kept her distance. She’d watch from the top of the couch, eyes narrowed. But then Nolan started crying, and Missy trotted over to his bassinet and meowed softly. She sat beside him until he stopped.
That became her job.
Every time the baby cried, she was there. Not touching, not too close, just watching. Guarding.
We called her the cranky nanny.
When Nolan got older, he adored Missy. He’d crawl after her, laugh when she flicked her tail, and babble nonsense at her like she was his best friend. Somehow, she let him.
She never scratched him. Not once. Even when he pulled her ear by accident, she just walked away.
One afternoon, I found him asleep on the floor with his head resting on Missy’s side. She looked annoyed, but she didn’t move. I took a picture, and it became one of my favorite memories.
Missy was there for everything—first steps, first tantrums, first time Nolan said “kitty” and pointed right at her.
Years passed, and Missy started slowing down.
She didn’t jump as high. Her fridge-fainting days became rare. She slept more, and her judgmental glares softened into tired blinks.
The vet said she was aging well, but we could tell—our girl was getting older.
One day, Nolan came home from school with a stray kitten following him.
“Can we keep her?” he asked, eyes wide.
I hesitated. Missy had ruled this house solo for over a decade. I wasn’t sure how she’d handle a new kitten.
We agreed to foster her temporarily, just to see how it went.
We named the kitten Dot, because of a little spot on her nose. She was hyper, clumsy, and completely fearless.
Missy hated her.
For a full week, she hissed every time Dot came near. Dot, being a tiny chaos goblin, thought it was a game and chased her anyway.
Then one night, we heard a crash.
Dot had jumped too high and knocked over a lamp. She yelped, startled, and hid under the couch.
Before we could even move, Missy walked over and stood in front of the couch like a bouncer.
She didn’t meow. Just sat there, watching. Dot peeked out, and after a long pause, crept out slowly.
Missy didn’t hiss.
From that night on, things changed.
They started sharing the same window ledge. Then the same food bowls. Eventually, the same bed.
It was like Missy passed on the crown, training Dot to take over as queen of the house.
But it also felt like something was shifting.
Missy slept more. She stopped climbing stairs. She stopped jumping up to the counter to try and steal chicken. Her purring became quieter.
One morning, we found her curled up in her sunny spot, not moving.
She looked peaceful. Like she’d just… fallen asleep.
We all sat there, even Dot. Especially Dot.
My husband cried. Nolan cried. And I cried harder than I ever had before.
We buried Missy under the big oak tree in the backyard. Nolan picked flowers for her. Dot sat silently by the grave.
Life felt emptier without her.
But something beautiful happened.
Dot changed. She stopped being wild and started watching over Nolan the same way Missy did. She followed me to the kitchen but never begged for food. She’d just sit beside me.
Sometimes, I’d open the fridge, and she’d flop on her back dramatically, her paws crossed—just like Missy used to.
We’d laugh and say, “She trained you well.”
A few weeks after Missy passed, I found a letter in the back of our junk drawer. It was from the shelter. An old, forgotten note.
It said: “Missy is not for everyone. She’s stubborn, complicated, and a little dramatic. But if she ever chooses you, count yourself lucky. She’s unforgettable.”
They were right.
Missy wasn’t just a pet. She was family. She was a lesson wrapped in fur and attitude.
She taught us patience. She taught us how to listen without words. She taught us that love doesn’t always come in cuddles—it comes in loyalty, in protection, in showing up every day even when you’re tired.
She even taught Dot. And in a way, she’s still here, in every little flick of the tail and sleepy stretch in the sunlight.
Sometimes, I swear I still hear her meow when the fridge opens.
Not begging—just checking.
And maybe, just maybe, she’s watching over us in her own way, wherever she is.
We thought we rescued her.
But it turns out, she rescued us first.
If you’ve ever had a pet that changed your life in ways you can’t explain, hold them close. Remember their quirks. Their lessons. Their love.
And if you’re lucky enough to be chosen by one like Missy, you’ll never forget it.
Share this if you’ve ever had a furry friend who made your house a home.
Like it if you believe that even the grumpiest little souls can leave the biggest paw prints on our hearts.
