The cat used to sleep with my wife. He would press his back against her and push me away with all four paws. In the mornings, hed give me a cheeky, mocking look. Id grumble about it, but there was nothing I could do. He was the darling, after alla little poppet, a ray of sunshine. My wife would laugh, but I was hardly amused.
For that little poppet, a special bit of cod would be fried up; the bones would be carefully removed, and the crispy, tasty skin would be neatly stacked beside the steaming, juicy fish on his plate. The cat would eye me with what could only be a crooked smirk, as if to say, Youre the loser hereIm the true favourite and master of the house.
Any leftover pieces the cat turned his nose up at, Id end up with. Honestly, he tormented me in every way he could. I would get my own back the best I couldgiving him a gentle nudge away from the plate or shooing him off the sofa. It was a running battle, really.
Every now and then, a nasty surprise would be waiting in my slippers or bootsa little sabotage, courtesy of Sir Cat. My wife would laugh and say, Well, you shouldnt pick on him, and ruffle her sunshines grey fur. Meanwhile, the smug creature would give me a haughty, condescending look. What could I do? I only had one wife, and that was the end of the matter. I simply had to tolerate it.
But then, one morning…
As I was getting ready for work, I heard my wife’s panicked cry in the hallway. Rushing out, I found six kilos of wild fur, claws, and pure rage flying at her like a bull at a gate. The beast spotted me, launched onto my chest, and shoved me so hard that I stumbled out of the hall and onto the floor.
I leapt up, grabbed a chair for a shield, and, clutching my wifes hand, dragged us into the bedroom. The cat lunged again, caught the chair leg, and let out a terrible cry. He didn’t give up, thoughhe kept attacking until we managed to slam the door behind us.
Listening to his furious hissing outside, we cleaned our countless scratches with rubbing alcohol and iodine from the first aid kit. Standing in the bedroom, my wife rang her office to say our cat had gone mad, clawed us up, and that we had to go to A&E instead of work. I called my boss straight after, repeating the story word for word.
And then…
The ground shudderedshook the whole house. Glass shattered in the kitchen, and the bathroom window cracked. I dropped my phone in shock. Suddenly, there was deafening silence. Forgetting the cat, we ran to the kitchen and looked out of the window.
Right in front of our building was a massive crater. Pieces of a van were scattered all over. It was our neighbours small lorryhe worked with gas, his van was loaded with canisters. Something must have sparked it off. Cars in the car park were tossed about and overturned, their wheels spinning helplessly like upside-down tortoises, while police and ambulance sirens blared in the distance.
In stunned disbelief, my wife and I turned round to look at the cat. He sat quietly in the corner, cradling a broken front paw to his chest, whimpering softly.
My wife gasped, scooped him up, and held him tight. I grabbed my car keys, and we rushed downstairs, skipping the lift, taking the stairs two at a time, all seven floors in complete silence.
Forgive us, all those caught in the blast, but we had our own casualty.
Our car was parked around the corner, unharmed. We jumped in and sped to our trusted vet. My heart ached with guilt, all the while the car radio, ironically, played Michel Legrands “Two in the Cafe”thats always the way.
An hour later, leaving the vets surgery, my wife carried her treasure in her arms. He lay there with his bandaged paw, showing it off to all the other pet owners in the waiting room. When they heard about the explosion, they all came over to fuss him.
At home, my wife lovingly cooked his favourite cod, carefully removing the bones, piling the crispy skin beside the tender flesh. I got the leftovers, as usual.
The cat hobbled over on three legs to his plate, grimacing at the pain, shooting me what was meant to be a disdainful lookthough it ended up more like a grimace of discomfort.
I was busy with work, rushing about, but as soon as I finished, I went to his dish and added my own deboned fish. The cat stared at me in silent amazement, tucking his sore paw in, and gave a questioning meow.
I picked him up, held him close, and said, I may be a loser, but with a wife and a cat like you, I reckon Im the happiest loser alive. I kissed his whiskered face.
He purred softly and bumped his big head against my cheek. I set him down, and, despite his pain, he started eating his fish, while my wife and I hugged each other and watched him, smiling.
Since then, the cat only ever sleeps beside me. He searches my face, and every night, I ask God for just one thingthat I have many more years to see my wife and my cat at my side.
I swear, I dont need anything else.
Because that is what happiness really means.
