By Cynthia Shank and Ryanne Czarina Villegas
Before the first lecture begins, a small ritual unfolds in corners most students hurry past. A plastic bowl is set down near the student center. A paper bag rustles by the library steps. From hedges and benches, the campus cats appear—stretching, blinking, tails flicking in recognition. The feeders rarely linger. They crouch, pour, maybe offer a soft “good morning,” and melt back into the day before most of us have finished scrolling through our alarms.
These small gestures, repeated throughout the day, form some kind of routine for Silliman pets. From morning feedings to midday playtimes, and last check-ins before the night settles in, this steady come-and-go routine lingers in the recognition of the pets to these people.
They are the unsung heroes of Silliman’s unofficial menagerie— the staff who slip in a feeding round before their shifts, or the students balancing labs and deadlines with a pocket of kibble tucked in their bags.
They don’t ask for recognition; often choosing to remain in the background while the animals bask in the sunlight. But without them, the familiar ginger at the library or the black-and-brown cat that escorts you to the dorm wouldn’t have the healthy coats or steady confidence we take for granted.
It’s not glamorous work. Rain soaks the cardboard shelters they fashion. Food runs out when allowance or salary stretches thin. There are vet bills for surprise injuries, and late-night dashes to rescue a kitten from a drainage canal.
No one logs these hours. No certificates and badges of honor are received. Yet the animals thrive because someone quietly shows up, day after day.
Their care goes beyond feeding. They are nurses, spotting limps and cleaning small wounds; mediators, easing worries when a nervous student crosses paths with a curious dog; teachers, showing through quiet action that everyday compassion keeps the campus kind. Each act—refilling water on a scorching noon, coaxing a frightened pup from under a parked motorcycle—is a lesson in stewardship.
And because of that steady care, the animals have become more than fleeting visitors—they’re part of the university’s daily rhythm. The cats themselves are fixtures of campus life. Charles, with his Bengal-like spots, rules Oriental Hall and is among the campus’s best-known pet celebrities, often the first friendly face to greet newcomers.
There is also a family of cats that reside in Katipunan Hall (KH), some colored black, some white, and some with black and orange patches. Their favorite spot to lounge in are the stairs of KH, where they are mostly seen sleeping in. Students, faculty, staff, and visitors alike tend to them at various hours of the day.
Some pets also reside in the dorms on campus. There are cats like Peachy and her kittens, Humphrey, Matilda, and Mojo. And the dog named Max, who used to be known as Hotdog from the Nursing building. These are the pets that the dormers and stewards of Silliman take care of like their own.
There are, however, challenges. The hardest part of caring for freely roaming animals is not the feeding itself but the uncertainty. A cat may vanish for days, leaving guardians to wonder if it has found shelter or fallen ill. Sometimes, illness or injury is visible but help is limited.
There are pets that Sillimanians have unfortunately had to let go of. Like Computer or Puter, the white cat from Uytengsu Computer Center, Spike, the tabby cat from Azucena Cottage, and Sparky, the poodle from Edith Carson Hall.
To remember them is to recognize how deeply they had become part of the community, how their presence, though small, made the campus feel more alive.
These animals do more than exist on campus; they quietly shape its culture. In small ways, they soften people. They bring out the part of campus life that doesn’t show up on transcripts: the everyday practice of kindness.
Students often talk about how the campus animals ease stress during exams or heartbreaks. But those moments of comfort exist because a handful of caretakers have already done the unglamorous groundwork: vaccines, deworming, regular meals. The calm you feel when a cat blinks at you outside the library is backed by someone’s early morning grocery run.
The guardians of Silliman pets don’t see their work as extraordinary—it’s simply part of living on campus. Cats and dogs come and go, some remembered by name, others only by the spots they favored in the shade.
What lasts is the quiet agreement among students, staff, and workers that these creatures belong here, too. In that shared understanding, the university feels less like an institution and more like a community.
