Well, here’s how it went. We went to visit the mother-in-law. Yeah. She lived in a tiny village, in a little house 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, mind you, my wife insisted on getting, despite all my protests and explanations. Try keeping two massive dogs in a three-bed flat on the fifth floor. Impossible.
Long story short.
Actually, no—shorter. They presented it as a done deal and made a promise. The promise? That my wife and daughter would handle the dog walks. Right. Did you believe that? I didn’t, and I was right. Guess who ended up walking them? Me. And feeding them, bathing them, everything. That’s how it went.
So, this trip to the countryside—technically, just a visit to the mother-in-law’s—felt like a holiday to me. Which, naturally, turned into a never-ending list of chores: fixing the house, working the garden plot. By the end, I was dead on my feet, barely even remembering the fishing rods I’d packed. The only ones truly happy were the dogs. Total freedom. Run wherever, do whatever. I envied them something fierce.
Then, on the second day, they brought home a cat.
Not just any cat—an ancient, scraggly, flea-ridden thing, black and white and filthy. The dogs stood in the hallway, whining like they’d found the crown jewels. The cat sat in front, playing the part of the humble penitent. Meanwhile, the mother-in-law, my wife, and daughter—who’d been conveniently absent for most of the gardening—lost their minds over it. Tears, cooing, arms flapping. “Look how noble our dogs are!”
The cat was welcomed with open arms. Washed, dried, fed, cuddled, kissed. Then it claimed my armchair. I got the stool.
They named it “Poor Kitty.” But I saw right through it. That cat had “Criminal Mastermind” written all over its smug little face.
For two whole weeks, while I slaved away on the mother-in-law’s land, that thing behaved like an angel. Played with the women, charmed the dogs. Won them over completely.
I’d hoped, at least, to leave it there. No such luck. After a battle I lost to my daughter, the mother-in-law packed a bag of treats for her “precious,” kissed its nose, and off it went—back to our flat.
And that’s when it really showed its true colours.
First order of business? Teach two fully grown German Shepherds who actually ran the place. One scrap later, the dogs slunk away with scratched noses and a newfound respect for their tiny overlord. My wife and daughter adored Poor Kitty. Cats know how to worm their way into women’s hearts. Unlike me.
Now, dog walks involved leashes for the Shepherds and a free reign for the cat. Only upside? The dogs walked in perfect formation, too scared to glance at Poor Kitty strutting ahead, tail high. Neighbors gawked. “How’d you train them so well?” I’d just smirk. That cat could train anyone.
Usually, it’d sprawl in the middle of the park while we circled it like some bizarre parade. The dogs gave me pleading looks.
Then one day, trouble showed up. A bloke new to the block, with two pit bulls—banned breeds, no less. No muzzles, no leads. They’d already terrorised every other pet in the area. Saw us, thought easy targets. Their owner, grinning, pulled out his phone to film.
The pit bulls charged. The Shepherds yanked their leads so hard I face-planted. I braced for disaster—until Poor Kitty moved.
One second, it was lounging. The next—a blur of fur and fury. The sound it made could’ve shattered glass. Two seconds later, one pit bull’s face was shredded. The other tucked tail and bolted. Owner just stood there, phone still rolling.
Now? Those pit bulls only come out at dawn or midnight. If they see us, they whimper and wet themselves.
The Shepherds lick their saviour now. No more arguments. And me? I’ll admit it—if not for that cat…
So, yeah. Things changed. When the girls are out, I crack open a couple of beers and split some fish with my tiny bodyguard. The dogs watch. They know better.
Sometimes, he lets me pet him. But his eyes—there’s something in them. Not “Poor Kitty.” More like an old warrior, stuck in purgatory as a cat.
Soon, we’re off to the mother-in-law’s again. More labour in exchange for no rest. And I’ve got this nagging worry…
What if the dogs bring back something else next time? A kitten? A fox?
I sigh, look at my four-legged circus, and realise—without them, life’d be a hundred times duller.
Aye. What do you reckon?
