“This cat came to campus EVERY DAY for 15 years. Students called him Professor Meow!”
No one knew exactly when he first appeared. Some said it was around the time the old library got renovated; others swore they saw him years earlier, sunbathing on the steps of the science building. What everyone agreed on, though, was that he simply… never left.
The ginger tabby—later affectionately named Professor Meow—treated Westbrook University like his personal kingdom. Each morning, while students shuffled across the quad half-awake, clutching coffee cups and textbooks, the cat strolled confidently through the same path: from the art department courtyard, past the student union, and finally to the language building. By the time the first lectures began, he would already be settled in the front row of whichever classroom door was left open.
“He’s probably older than most of us,” joked Liam, a sophomore biology major, one chilly October morning as he watched Professor Meow hop gracefully onto a bench. The cat responded with a slow blink, as if unimpressed by the observation.
Despite his calm demeanor, there was something almost intentional about the way Professor Meow moved. He didn’t scurry like a stray. He didn’t beg for food, though students often shared scraps from their sandwiches. He behaved as if he belonged—more than that, as if everyone else was just visiting his campus.
The administration tried, at first, to keep him out. Campus security once carried him to the edge of the property, but he returned the next day. Facilities put up polite signs—“Please do not feed the stray animals”—yet the students ignored them, sneaking him bits of tuna or chicken during lunch breaks. Eventually, the staff gave up. Professor Meow wasn’t leaving, and he wasn’t causing trouble. If anything, he made people smile.
The Study Buddy
For years, students found him everywhere: sprawled across library tables, napping on piles of open books, or curled up in backpacks like he was supervising their studies. The night before exams, groups of anxious undergrads would sit around him on the floor, scribbling notes as the cat purred steadily—a sound that seemed to lower everyone’s stress levels.
“I swear he’s lucky,” said Maria, an English major who claimed she got an A on every test she studied for with Professor Meow beside her. “He’s like a furry charm.”
There was even a rumor that if you rubbed his head the morning before your finals, you’d pass no matter what. Some laughed, but others lined up outside the humanities building to do just that.
Generations Came and Went
Years passed. Students graduated, new ones arrived, and yet Professor Meow remained a constant presence. He watched as freshmen turned into seniors, as trends changed, as buildings were renovated. Even professors came and went, but the cat stayed—quietly observing life unfold around him.
Alumni who returned for homecoming events often asked the same question: “Is Professor Meow still here?” When they saw him trotting along the quad, now with a slightly slower gait, they’d smile nostalgically. Some even brought their kids to meet him.
A Mystery Beneath the Fur
But who was Professor Meow, really? Was he a stray? Did someone own him? Why did he choose this campus, and why for so long?
One rainy evening, a group of students took shelter under the library archway. Professor Meow joined them, shaking droplets off his orange coat before settling at their feet.
“Do you think he remembers everyone?” one student asked.
“Maybe,” said another. “Maybe he’s waiting for someone.”
The idea stuck. It wasn’t just that he was a campus mascot—there was something almost… purposeful about his daily patrols. Some swore they’d seen him stop and stare at the faculty memorial wall, as though he recognized the names engraved there.
Something Changes
One cold winter morning, during Professor Meow’s fifteenth year on campus, students noticed he wasn’t in his usual spot. No cat in the quad. No soft purring in the library. The benches were empty.
At first, they assumed he was just hiding from the snow. But by afternoon, whispers spread:
“Has anyone seen Professor Meow today?”
“Not me. He’s always here by now.”
“What if something happened to him?”
For a community that had taken his presence for granted, the sudden absence felt heavier than expected.
The following day, the campus buzzed with speculation. Group chats lit up:
“No one’s seen him for two days now.”
“Should we check the maintenance sheds?”
“What if he’s sick somewhere?”
By afternoon, a small search party of students and a few sympathetic staff members began combing the grounds. They checked the usual spots—beneath the benches, near the art building, the warm vents by the cafeteria. Nothing.
Finally, near the back entrance of the old library, they found him.
Professor Meow was curled up in a patch of weak sunlight, his orange fur dulled by age but still unmistakable. He looked up at the group with tired eyes, gave a faint meow, and laid his head back down. Relief washed over everyone, but it was quickly followed by worry. He seemed frailer than anyone had realized.
The Campus Mobilizes
Without hesitation, students rallied. Someone brought a blanket, another fetched a carrier. Maria—the same student who once credited him for her exam luck—called a local veterinarian. “He’s not just a stray,” she said firmly to the receptionist, “he’s… he’s part of our school.”
Within an hour, Professor Meow was at the vet. The diagnosis wasn’t surprising: old age, arthritis, and mild dehydration. “He’s at least seventeen,” the vet estimated, “maybe older. For a cat that’s been outdoors most of his life, that’s remarkable.”
The students exchanged glances. Seventeen years. That meant he’d been coming to campus since before some of them were born.
A Decision
The vet suggested finding him a permanent indoor home. But when word spread on campus, students resisted.
“He belongs here,” said Liam. “This is his home. We can take care of him together.”
And so they did. A faculty member offered her office as a quiet space. Students rotated shifts, bringing food, cleaning his litter box, and even carrying him outside to his favorite bench on sunny days. It wasn’t just about keeping him alive—it was about giving back to the cat that had unknowingly comforted thousands of stressed young adults over the years.
Professor Meow’s Farewell
Months passed. Professor Meow slowed down, his patrols shorter, his naps longer. One spring afternoon, as cherry blossoms drifted across the quad, he lay stretched out on the library steps surrounded by students who had stopped between classes just to sit with him.
“He’s been here for all of us,” someone whispered. “Every late-night study session, every hard day—he’s been here.”
Not long after, Professor Meow peacefully passed away in his sleep, inside the same campus that had been his world for over fifteen years.
The Memorial
The university responded quickly. A small bronze plaque appeared near the library:
“In memory of Professor Meow (2008–2023).
He taught us kindness, patience, and that home can be found in unexpected places.”
Students placed flowers, photos, and even exam papers with “A+” circled in red ink beside the plaque. Alumni mailed in donations to create a scholarship fund in his name—awarded each year to a student who demonstrated acts of quiet kindness.
Years Later
Generations changed again. Freshmen still arrived on campus not knowing his story. But by the second week, they’d see upperclassmen stop by the plaque, touch it lightly, and say things like, “Rub it for good luck—just like we used to do with him.”
The legend lived on. And though the real Professor Meow was gone, his spirit lingered in the little traditions he inspired:
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Students still studied in “his” corner of the library during finals week.
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They still called the bench by the science building “Meow’s seat.”
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And every spring, someone left a toy mouse under the memorial plaque.
A New Visitor
One sunny afternoon, nearly five years later, a small orange kitten wandered onto campus. Skinny, shy, and clearly lost, it paused near the library steps—the very same spot where Professor Meow had once lounged.
Students noticed immediately.
“Do you think…?” one whispered.
The kitten blinked up at them, then climbed onto the bench and curled into a tiny ball of fur, purring softly.
No one said it out loud, but they all thought the same thing:
Maybe some professors never really leave their classrooms.