The cat always insisted on sleeping with my wife. Hed press his furry back against her and stretch out all four legs, shoving me out of bed as if I were the unwanted lodger. In the morning, he gave me a wilful, mocking stare, tail flicking in triumph. Id grumble, but what could I do? He was the favouritemy darling and little ray of sunshine, as my wife said, laughing at my misery. Not that I found any of this remotely funny.
This angelin fur, mind youwould have his fish specially cooked, the bones delicately picked out, and the crispy skin arranged in a neat little pile next to the steaming fillets on his dainty plate. The sight was truly a masterclass in pet pampering. While he was tucking in, hed stare at me with such a smirk, youd swear he was actually mouthing, Loser. Im clearly the real lord and master here.
I was left with whatever scraps hadnt met His Majestys standards. In short, the cat made it his mission to wind me up at every opportunity. I retaliated in petty waysgently nudging him away from his fish, or nudging him off the sofa. It was a tolerable sort of domestic warfare.
Sometimes, to even the score, he’d leave a surprise in my slipperstimed for maximum effect. My wife chuckled. Serves you right for picking on him! she said, petting her little sunshine. The grey cat gazed down at me with that lookpart pope, part Queen Victoria. I sighed. Whats a chap to do? Shes my one and only, and there was just no arguing my case, really. Stoicism was the only reasonable response. Until this morning
This particular morning, as I was getting ready for work, my wifes panicked scream echoed from the hallway. I sprinted over and gawked at the scene: six kilograms of bristling fur, claws, and apocalyptic wrath launching itself at my wife like a rugby player after the ball.
At the sight of me, the beast sprang onto my chest and shoved me backwards so forcefully I stumbled out of the hall, landing in a heap. Scrambling up, I grabbed a chair, brandished it like a lion tamer, and, snatching my wifes hand, pulled her into the bedroom with me. The cat, missing its target, smashed into one of the chair legs and yowleda sound loud enough to wake the neighbours.
Even that didnt put him off. He continued his deranged attacks until we managed to slam the bedroom door behind us. We stood there, breathing hard, listening to the angry hissing outside, before tending our wounds with medicinal-quality gin and iodine from the bathroom cabinet. While my wife called in sick, explaining that our cat had gone utterly bonkers and mauled the both of us, I rang my boss with the same story. One must remain consistent, after all.
And thenjust at that momentthe whole house gave a thunderous shudder. With a shattering crash, the kitchen and bathroom windows exploded inwards. My mobile crashed to the floor. There was a stunned silence, broken only by the echo of alarm bells drifting in from the distance.
We forgot all about the psychotic cat and dashed to the kitchen, peering outside. There, in front of the building, yawned an enormous crater, bits of car scattered everywhere. Turns out, the neighbours little vanpowered on gas and loaded with several canistershad exploded. Cars in the nearby lot were strewn about, lying on their sides and spinning their wheels like beetles on their backs. Sirens howled in the distance.
Stunned, my wife and I turned to look at the cat. He was sat in the corner, cradling a bent front paw and sobbing softly. My wife shrieked, scooped him up, and clutched him to her chest. Keys clutched in my fist, we practically flew down the stairs, skipping every other step, all seven storeys. Please forgive us, all those affected by the explosion, but at that moment our wounded soldier took priority.
Luckily, our car was parked out the back and was untouched. We rushed to the local vet, my stomach in knots, while, adding insult to injury, the radio blared out some tragically appropriate Michael Nyman piece about being alone in a café.
An hour later, I emerged from the surgery alongside my wife, with her clutching her furry bundle, beaming. The cat, bandaged up, displayed his mummified paw to all in the waiting room like a badge of honour. When my wife told everyone what had happened, people leapt from their seats, showering him with strokes and sympathy.
Back at home, my wife fussed around the kitchen, preparing his favourite fishcooked just so, bones plucked, the crispy skin arranged in a neat little peak. I got the leftovers, of course. Hobbling on three legs, the cat limped over to his plate, squinting in pain and attempted his usual world-weary sneer at me, but only managed an agonised grimace.
I pretended to be busy. When I finally finished, I went over and deposited my untouched share of fish, deboned, onto his plate. He stared back at me, as if to say, Hang on, whats this about? Lifting his injured paw to his chest, he gave a questioning little mew.
I picked him up gently and, holding him close, whispered, Maybe Im a loser. But with this wife and this cat, I reckon Im the happiest loser in England. Then I kissed his furry head.
The cat responded with a gentle purr and nuzzled my cheek with his big, bandaged head. I set him down; limping in pain, he tucked into his fish, while my wife and I stood side by side, arms around each other, grinning like idiots.
Since then, the cat only sleeps with me. He gazes up at me each night, and I pray for nothing but years more of seeing him and my wife at my side. Nothing else matters, honestly.
Because thats all you need for true, honest-to-goodness happiness. Cross my heart.
