Well, here’s the thing. We went to visit the mother-in-law. Yep. She lived in a tiny village, in a little cottage right on the edge of town, and beyond that—woods, a river, a lake, and fishing. Fresh air, birdsong, mushroom and berry picking. Absolute paradise for my two German shepherds. Which, by the way, my wife got despite all my protests and perfectly reasonable arguments. I mean, keeping two massive dogs in a three-bedroom flat on the fifth floor? Impossible.
Long story short—or should I say, short story made long—they presented me with a done deal and a promise. The promise? The wife and daughter would walk the dogs.
Yeah.
Did you believe that?
I didn’t. And I was right. Guess who ended up walking and taking care of them? Yours truly.
So, this trip to the countryside—or rather, to the mother-in-law’s place—felt like a holiday. Or at least, it should have. Instead, it turned into a never-ending to-do list: fixing the house, tending the garden, general manual labour. By the end, I was too knackered to even dream of fishing or foraging.
The only ones having the time of their lives were the shepherds. Freedom! Run wherever, do whatever.
And I? I was green with envy.
Then, on day two, they brought home… a cat.
Not just any cat. An old, scruffy, flea-ridden, black-and-white tom with the air of a disgraced gangster. The dogs stood in the hallway, whimpering with hopeful enthusiasm. The cat sat at the front, putting on a show of repentance and humility. The mother-in-law, wife, and daughter—who, let’s be honest, weren’t exactly busy with the gardening—immediately melted into a puddle of cooing, gasping, and hand-flapping over the “nobility” of our dogs.
The cat was welcomed with open arms. Washed, dried, fed, cuddled, and smothered in kisses. Then it claimed my armchair.
I got the stool.
They named him “Poor Kitty.”
But I knew better. One look at that glint in his eye, and it was clear—this was no poor kitty. This was a hardened criminal in feline form.
For two whole weeks—while I served my sentence of hard labour—this creature behaved like an angel. Played with the ladies, charmed the dogs, won hearts.
I had high hopes of leaving him behind. But no. After a battle of wills (which my daughter won), the mother-in-law packed him a care package of treats, kissed him on the nose, and off he went—to our place.
And that’s when his true colours showed. First order of business? Establishing dominance over two fully grown German shepherds. One scuffle later, the dogs emerged with scratched noses and a newfound understanding: they had made a grave, *grave* mistake.
Wife and daughter adored Poor Kitty. Cats somehow have a direct line to women’s hearts. Unlike me.
Now, I walked two leashed shepherds and one smugly unleashed cat. The only upside? The dogs walked in perfect formation, too terrified to even glance at His Majesty, tail held high like a flag.
Neighbours marvelled: *”How’d you train them so well? Walking in step like soldiers!”*
I just grimaced. Poor Kitty could train anyone.
He’d sprawl in the middle of the park like a sunbathing supervisor while we circled him. The dogs shot me pleading looks.
Then came the pit bulls.
New to the neighbourhood, unleashed, snarling—their owner clearly thought they owned the place. They’d already terrorised every other pet in the vicinity.
When they spotted us, they went for the shepherds first, saving the cat (and me) for dessert. Big mistake.
The dogs yanked their leashes so hard I face-planted. As I braced for carnage, Poor Kitty—who’d been lounging like a pampered noble—exploded into action. The sound he made could’ve shattered glass. Two seconds later, one pit bull looked like it had gone through a shredder. The other fled, howling, to its owner—who was still filming, jaw on the floor.
Now? Those pit bulls are walked *only* at dawn or night—when we’re not out. If they spot Poor Kitty, they tuck tail, whimper, and practically wet themselves.
The shepherds lick their saviour’s paws. Even I’ve softened. When the girls are out, I crack open a couple of beers and share some salted fish with him. (Okay, fine, I keep the beer.)
Sometimes he lets me pet him. But there’s something in his eyes—something ancient, battle-hardened, like the soul of a warrior trapped in a “Poor Kitty.”
Soon, we’re off to the mother-in-law’s again. More “holiday” labour.
And I’ve got this nagging thought…
What if the dogs bring home *another* stray? A fox, maybe? A litter of kittens?
I sigh, look at my four-legged circus, and realise—without them, life would be a hundred times duller.
So, yeah.
What do *you* think?
