**Diary Entry**
Well, here’s how it went. We drove up to visit the mother-in-law. Right.
She lived in a tiny village, in a little house right on the edge of things—beyond it, nothing but woods, a river, a lake, and fishing spots. Fresh air, birds chirping, mushroom and berry picking. A paradise for my two German Shepherds. Which, mind you, my wife got despite all my protests and perfectly reasonable objections. Keeping two massive dogs in a three-bedroom flat on the fifth floor? Impossible.
Long story short—or rather, *short* story shorter—they presented me with a done deal and a promise. The promise? That my wife and daughter would handle walking the dogs.
Yeah.
Did you believe that?
I didn’t. And I was right. Walking them, feeding them—all of it fell to me.
So, a trip to the countryside—to my mother-in-law’s house—felt like a holiday. Naturally, it turned into manual labour: fixing up the house, working the garden, all of it. By the end, I was dead on my feet. Fishing? Mushroom hunting? Not a chance.
The only ones truly happy were the dogs. Freedom. Run wherever you like, do whatever you want.
And I? I envied them bitterly.
Then, on the second day, they brought home… a cat.
An old, scruffy, flea-ridden thing, black and white and looking like it had seen better days. The Shepherds stood in the hallway, whining earnestly, while the cat sat at their front, putting on its best act of repentance and humility.
The mother-in-law, my wife, and my daughter—none of whom had broken much of a sweat with the housework (that was *my* job)—cooed and gushed, hands aloft, eyes wet, over the Shepherds’ supposed nobility.
The cat was welcomed with open arms. Washed, dried, fed, cuddled. Then it claimed my armchair.
I got a stool.
They named him *Poor Kitty*.
But I could see it in his eyes, in the way he carried himself—Poor Kitty was nothing short of a hardened criminal.
For two weeks, while I slogged away at my mother-in-law’s, the thing behaved like an angel—playing with the women and the dogs, winning their love, respect, and admiration.
I’d hoped, desperately, that he might stay there. But no. After a battle my daughter won decisively, the mother-in-law packed treats for her furry favourite, kissed his nose, and off he came… to *our* home.
And oh, how he flourished there. First, he made it clear to the two hulking Shepherds who *really* owned the flat. That scrap ended with torn muzzles and a solemn understanding—a *deep*, soul-crushing realisation of their fatal error.
My wife and daughter adored Poor Kitty. Cats know how to worm their way into a woman’s heart. Unlike me, evidently.
Now, walking the dogs meant leashes—and Poor Kitty strolling free. The only upside? The Shepherds walked in perfect formation, rigid, eyes forward or right—never daring to glance at the cat, tail high, leading the way.
The neighbours marvelled.
*”How’d you train them so well? Marching in step—just lovely!”*
I’d grimace. Poor Kitty could train *anyone*.
He’d flop in the middle of the field while we circled him, the dogs casting pleading looks my way. The cat? He just watched—like a stern foreman overseeing his workers.
Then came the pit bulls. New to the neighbourhood, unleashed, unmuzzled—bred for fighting, technically illegal. Their owner, fresh on the scene, seemed eager to establish dominance.
First, they cleared the local cats. Then sent a few bold dogs to the vet.
By the time we stepped out, the place was deserted—except for them and their owner, lounging smugly.
At the sight of my orderly Shepherds—and Poor Kitty—they decided to ambush us. Their owner didn’t object. In fact, he started filming.
They lunged—for the dogs first, assuming the leashes would trap them.
Me and Poor Kitty? Saved for dessert.
Big mistake.
The Shepherds bolted, yanking me clean off my feet. As I hit the dirt, bracing for the worst, Poor Kitty—once a lazy observer—turned into a demon.
The sound he made? A fire siren would’ve wept with envy.
Two seconds. That’s all it took. One pit bull’s face was ribbons. The other? Cowered, tail tucked, howling as it fled to its owner—who was still filming, slack-jawed.
Live-streamed humiliation.
Now, those pit bulls? Muzzled. Leashed. Taken out only when *we’re* not walking. Because if they see Poor Kitty? They piss themselves and hide behind their owner, whining.
The Shepherds? They lick their saviour now. No more quarrels. And me? I’ll admit—without him, things might’ve ended badly.
So my relationship with Poor Kitty’s improved. When the girls are out, I crack open a couple of beers and a pack of salted fish. I take the beers—he gets the fish. The dogs watch. Silent. Wise enough not to argue.
Sometimes he lets me pet him. But his eyes? They don’t say *Poor Kitty*. More like the soul of some ancient warrior, punished for past sins—condemned to this feline form.
Soon, we’re off to the mother-in-law’s again. More “holiday” labour.
And one thought nags me:
What if the dogs bring back something else? A kitten? A fox?
I sigh, looking at my four-legged mob.
Without them? Life would be a hundred times duller.
Aha. What do *you* think?
