Well, here’s the thing. We went to visit the mother-in-law. Right.
She lived in a tiny village, in a little cottage right on the edge of things, and beyond that—woods, a river, a lake, and fishing. Fresh air, birdsong, mushroom and berry picking. A paradise for my two German shepherds. Which, mind you, my wife had insisted on getting despite all my protests and reasoning. Impossible to keep two such massive dogs in a three-bed flat on the fifth floor.
Long story short.
Or rather, to put it bluntly, they presented me with a done deal and made promises.
The promise was this: the wife and daughter would walk the dogs.
Yeah.
Believe that?
I didn’t, and I was right. I walked them. I looked after them.
That’s how it went.
So. A trip to the countryside—the mother-in-law’s place—felt like a holiday to me. Which, naturally, turned into endless chores, fixing up the house, tending the sprawling garden. By the end, dead on my feet, I’d forgotten all about fishing or foraging.
The only ones truly living their best life were the shepherds. Freedom. Run where you like, as long as you like, do as you please.
And I envied them bitterly.
But on the second day, they brought home… a cat.
An ancient, mangy, flea-ridden thing, black and white and thoroughly disreputable.
The shepherds stood in the hallway, whining eagerly. The cat sat primly before them, the very picture of repentance and humility. The mother-in-law, wife, and daughter—none of whom had broken a sweat over the house or garden (that was my job)—melted into coos and tears and fluttering hands, marveling at the nobility of our dogs.
The cat was welcomed with open arms. Washed, dried, fed, cuddled, smothered in kisses. Then it curled up in my armchair.
I got the stool.
They named him—Poor Kitty.
But I saw it in his eyes, in the way he carried himself. Poor Kitty was a thug in a fur coat.
For two whole weeks, while I served my sentence on the mother-in-law’s estate, this creature behaved like an angel. Played with the women and the dogs, winning their hearts effortlessly.
I’d hoped, at least, to leave him there.
But after a battle of wills—won by the daughter—the mother-in-law packed treats for her feline darling, kissed his nose, and off he went, back to our flat.
Right.
Home was where he truly revealed himself. First order of business: teaching two hulking shepherds who really owned the place. That skirmish left the dogs with torn muzzles and a newfound, bone-deep understanding of their fatal miscalculation.
The wife and daughter adored Poor Kitty. Cats have a way with women—unlike me.
Aye.
Now, walks meant two shepherds on leads and Poor Kitty strolling freely. The only upside? The dogs walked in perfect formation, rigidly to heel, never daring so much as a glance at the cat sashishing ahead, tail held high.
The neighbors marveled.
“However did you train them so well? Marching in step—marvelous!”
I just smirked grimly. Poor Kitty could train anyone.
Usually, he’d sprawl in the middle of the green, and we’d circle him, the dogs casting pleading looks my way while he watched us like a stern foreman.
Enter the bloke who’d just moved in—with two pit bulls. No leads, no muzzles, naturally. Banned breeds, but he fancied himself the new top dog.
First, they cleared the yard of every other cat and sent a few bold strays to the vet.
When we showed up, the pit bulls and their owner were enjoying their reign of terror—until they spotted us.
They slunk close, then lunged—targeting the shepherds first, banking on the leads to keep them trapped. Poor Kitty and me? Saved for dessert.
Mistake.
The shepherds yanked so hard I hit the dirt. They tried to bolt—obviously failed—and as I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for carnage, steeling myself to leap up, shout, wave my arms—be brave—
Yeah.
Turns out, the only bravery on display was Poor Kitty’s. One second, a lounging aristocrat; the next, a furry demon.
The noise he made—screeching like a banshee—sent the first pit bull reeling, its face shredded in seconds. The second one froze, then fled, howling, tail between its legs.
Their owner? Still filming, slack-jawed. Live and in disbelief.
Now, those pit bulls get walked with muzzles and leads—but only when we’re not out. If they spot Poor Kitty, they whimper, cower behind their bloke, and wet themselves. To avoid the shame, he walks them at dawn or midnight.
The shepherds? They lick their savior’s paws now. No more squabbles.
And me? I’ll admit—without him…
So. My relationship with Poor Kitty’s changed. When the wife and daughter are out, I crack open a couple of beers and two salted herrings. The beers are mine. The fish? Fairly split with my feline bodyguard.
The dogs watch in silence. They know better. Dogs are smart.
Sometimes, he lets me pet him. But his eyes—there’s something there. Not Poor Kitty. Something older. A warrior’s soul, maybe, damned to this purgatory of fluff and whimsy.
Soon, we’re off to the mother-in-law’s again. More labor disguised as leisure.
And a nagging thought gnaws at me—
What if the dogs bring home another stray? A kitten? A fox?
I sigh, eyeing my four-legged mob, and realize—
Without them, life would be a hundred times duller.
Aye.
What do you reckon?
