Your Cat is Too Noisy When Pouncing

Your cat stomps too loudly!

“Turn off that infernal contraption! I can’t sleep because of you!” a voice shrieked from behind the door. Then came the pounding—fists hammering, the doorbell jabbing incessantly. Emily flinched, dropping the remote. Alex stirred uneasily under the sheets.

The bedroom was dim, lit only by the faint glow of a nightlight. Outside, the sticky summer heat clung to the air. Emily threw on her dressing gown and shuffled to the door.

On the other side stood a woman in her seventies, thin-lipped, her expression pinched with irritation. She wore a simple cotton dress and clutched a mobile phone in one hand.

“I’m sorry, but… who are you?” Emily asked, keeping the door chain fastened. Fear prickled at her throat.
“Margaret bloody Whitmore, that’s who! Third floor! That rattling monstrosity above my window is keeping me awake. Turn it off this instant, or I’ll call the police! Noise curfew’s past ten!”

Emily opened her mouth to respond, but Margaret steamrolled on.

“Have you no consideration? The whole building suffers because of you!”
“It’s not that loud, honestly,” Emily ventured cautiously. “We tested it with the window open.”
“‘Not that loud’—my foot! My heart’s pounding like a drum from that racket!”
“Fine, we’ll switch it off,” Emily relented, grudging. “We didn’t realise it bothered anyone.”
“Well, now you do,” Margaret snipped.

Her footsteps retreated down the hall.

Emily returned to the bedroom and killed the air conditioning. She flung open every window, even the balcony door, but it did nothing. The heat rolled in like a suffocating tide. Alex tossed and turned before finally dragging himself to the shower. Emily lay stiffly, staring at the ceiling.
This wasn’t how they’d imagined their first summer in their own flat.

…They’d bought this two-bedder just months ago. Last summer in their rented hellhole had been a nightmare—bowls of tepid water, fans churning hot air in circles. Emily had signed the mortgage with trembling hands, clinging to the promise of freedom.

Turns out, freedom had limits.

The next morning, Emily bumped into their neighbour, Natalie, in the lift. They’d met before—even helped her fix a leaky tap.

“Listen, Nat,” Emily leaned against the wall, “we ran the AC last night, and someone complained. Is it really that noisy?”

Natalie arched a brow.

“Let me guess. Margaret Whitmore?”
Emily nodded.

“Figures. She’s moaned about us too. The telly’s too loud, my son laughs too much. Once claimed our cat thumps around like a herd of elephants. We’ve learned to ignore her. She calls the council twice a month. Manageable.”

Emily couldn’t help a smirk.
“The *cat*? Seriously?”
“Dead serious. We don’t even use the telly anymore—just headphones. Harder to muzzle the kid and the cat, though.”

Later, Emily crossed paths with Oliver on the stairs. His AC unit—the exact same model—hung directly under Margaret’s window.

“Oi, Oliver—she ever complain to you?”
“Nah. Though mine’s a proper clunker. Mate said it’s installed wonky—shakes like a washing machine. Guess I’m in her good books,” he chuckled.
“Anyone ever moan about us?”
“Not a peep. You two are quieter than mice. No kids, no drills, not even a barking dog.”

None of it made sense. Emily tested the AC again, listening through the open window. Barely a hum.
So what was the issue? Maybe it wasn’t about decibels at all. Emily began to wonder if Margaret simply despised *them*—if their existence alone grated on her. Or worse—if she couldn’t stand anyone else’s peace.

From that first confrontation, their nights became a battleground. They’d crank the AC just enough to steal thirty minutes of cool before shutting it off at 10:59. A minute late, and Margaret would pound the radiators. Five minutes? She’d be at their door.

They tried a fan by the window—louder than the AC, yet somehow *invisible* to Margaret’s wrath.

They even called a technician, playing the responsible neighbours. He tweaked the unit, added padding.

“Adjusted the brackets, fitted noise dampeners. But honestly, it’s already pretty quiet. You’d struggle to make it quieter—not that you should bother,” he concluded.

Emily smiled, relieved. Maybe now, they’d sleep.

Two nights later, at 11:03, the phone rang.

“Are you running that blasted machine *again*?” Margaret’s voice was frayed. “My walls are shaking! My blood pressure’s through the roof!”
“We had it serviced. The technician said it’s barely audible. We’ve done everything—”
“Your technician isn’t listening to it at midnight! Turn it off, or I’ll have the constable on you!”

Alex sighed and switched it off. They slept under the fan’s drone.

Over time, Emily noticed something: Margaret wasn’t exactly a saint herself. Her phone calls were volcanic—shrieking matches that echoed through the floors, sometimes past midnight.

“‘Daughter’ my foot! You only call when you need money!” Margaret would screech. “Everyone’s abandoned me! *Everyone!*”

Emily tried not to listen, but the noise was invasive. Afterward, an unease settled over her—like she’d been shoved into someone else’s unraveling.

One night, sweating under a thin sheet, the fan’s rattle in her ears, Emily remembered sleeping through drills and muffled music in their old place. Not ideal, but survivable.

They’d never once complained. They *got it*—you don’t live in a detached house or a forest cabin. Flats meant noise. Everyone coped.

Everyone except Margaret.

Late August simmered. When Emily’s parents invited them to their cottage, they leapt at the chance. The countryside was cool. Sure, there’d be gardening under the sun, but no Margaret.

They packed in an hour, unplugged everything. The evening was golden—corn on the cob, laughter, the debate between barbecue or grilled fish for tomorrow.

Paradise. Until 1:30 a.m.

Alex’s phone buzzed. He fumbled for it, squinting. Margaret’s name flashed on the screen. He groaned.

“Her again?” Emily muttered.
“Who else?”

Alex answered on speaker, bracing for impact.

“Hello?”
“Are you *mocking* me?!” Margaret’s voice was raw. “That AC’s roaring again! I haven’t slept a wink!”

Alex paused. Emily scanned the room. They weren’t even *home*.

“Margaret… we’re at my parents’. The flat’s empty. Everything’s off.”
“Liar! I *hear* it! If I have a heart attack, I’ll sue you for damages!”

Emily bit back a retort. Margaret out-volumed everyone. The call ended mid-tirade.

Alex dropped his phone, rubbing his face. “She’s unhinged.”

The next morning, Emily’s mum swung by their flat on her way back from town.

“Sweetheart, it’s dead silent. Just the fridge humming—and only if you press your ear to it.”

The confirmation twisted something in Emily. A petty neighbour was one thing. *This* was something darker.

Alex had had enough. “I’m blocking her number. Disabling the doorbell, too. Otherwise, we’ll go as mad as she is.”

Emily agreed. “Ignore her. If it’s urgent, they’ll knock. And no answering the door after ten.”

Blocking Margaret felt like shedding chains. No more explanations. No guilt. Just cool, quiet nights.

For days, they braced for backlash. Margaret pounded their door nightly, yelling about disrespect, the police, curses. On the third night, another neighbour snapped.

“Enough! *You’re* the one keeping us awake! Piss off or I’ll call the law myself!”

Margaret vanished.

A week later, a constable visited. He took a statement but shrugged it off.

“Try to humour her. Elderly, difficult character…”

It wasn’t a reprimand—just paperwork. He understood.

The drama fizzled. They kept being good neighbours: no noise, no mess, no late-night music. But they stopped dancing to Margaret’s tune. Some lines weren’t theirs to cross.

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Your Cat is Too Noisy When Pouncing