By Rodriguez 
When I was in elementary school, I had a favorite pair of bright yellow rubber clogs. I wore them almost every day. I decorated them with all kinds of fun little charms—smiley faces, dinosaurs, and even a miniature slice of pizza. They were soft, light, and easy to slip on before class started.
But then something strange started happening.
My shoes kept going missing.
Sometimes, only one would disappear. Other times, I’d find them both, but the charms were gone. One day, after P.E., I discovered that one of my shoes had completely vanished. I had to walk around the whole afternoon in one clog and one sock.
That night at home, I told my parents.
“My shoes keep disappearing at school,” I said.
“Are you sure someone’s not just taking them by mistake?” Mom asked.
“Maybe they’re running away,” Dad joked. “They want to see the world.”
I didn’t laugh. I was beginning to think something sneaky was going on.
The next day, I told my teacher, Mr. Wong.
He scratched his chin and said, “Let’s check the lost and found first.” But of course, my shoes weren’t there.
Later that week, Mr. Wong talked to the school’s janitor, Ms. Lau, and asked her to review the security cameras. I waited nervously for days. Finally, one afternoon, Mr. Wong waved me over with a curious look on his face.
“I think we’ve found the shoe thief,” he said.
He played a clip from the hallway camera near the playground. The video showed the usual scene—kids running around, backpacks left in piles. Then, something unexpected: a small, gray-and-white cat sneaking through the gate.
The cat crept over to the row of shoes outside our classroom, sniffed around, and—just like a cartoon burglar—grabbed one of my clogs in its mouth and trotted off toward the slide.
My jaw dropped.
“It’s a cat!” I said, half laughing, half shocked. “A real cat!”
The next day during recess, Mr. Wong and I followed the trail. We looked around the playground, and just beneath the big red slide, we found a tiny opening.
I crouched down and peeked inside.
There, in the shadows, was a soft little nest made of leaves, bits of paper, string, and—yes—my missing shoes. Not just mine. Other shoes too. Alongside them were bottle caps, erasers, rubber bands, and small shiny rocks.
And right in the center of it all sat the cat, looking incredibly proud.
I stared in amazement. “It made a house out of shoes…”
From then on, the mystery was solved. The cat wasn’t stealing for fun. It was collecting things to build a cozy little den. My shoes just happened to be perfect—soft, round, full of holes to stuff treasures in.
Word spread fast. The entire class wanted to see the “cat cave.” The school eventually built a small wooden shelter beside the playground just for the cat. It even had a nameplate: “School Cat Headquarters.”
As for me, I got a new nickname: “The Cat Curator.” It became my job to check on the cat’s “museum” once a week. I made a notebook to record its finds—like “Shiny Coin That Might Be Chocolate” or “Broken Blue Crayon With Bite Marks.”
Sometimes, the cat would still leave me little gifts in my shoes: a piece of ribbon, a lost sticker, or once… a dead bug.
“Eww!” I said, flinging it away.
“Maybe it’s saying thank you,” Mr. Wong joked.
I didn’t mind anymore. In fact, I looked forward to checking my shoes every day.
What started as a mystery turned into something much better—a strange, sweet friendship between a school cat and a kid who used to wonder where his shoes had gone.
And even now, when I find something weird in my sneakers, I smile and think:
Maybe the cat curator left me something again.