The cat would sleep curled up beside my wife. Hed press his back against her, pushing me to the edge of the bed with all four paws. In the morning, hed fix me with a bold, mocking stare. Id grumble, but what could I do? He was the darling, the little treasure, her sweetheart and sunshine. My wife would laugh at it, but it was never funny to me.
For this so-called angel, a special piece of haddock would be fried, the bones meticulously picked out, and the crispy, golden skin stacked into a neat little pile beside the steaming, succulent fillets on his dish. Hed watch me from his place, his whiskers twitching, with a lopsided sneer that seemed to say, Youre the loser hereI am the true favourite and master of this house.
The bits of fish I received were just the leftover scrapsthe parts too tough or gristly for his royal highness. In truth, the cat was having his bit of fun, tormenting me however he could. Id retaliate in my own small ways: gently nudging him away from his dish or booting him off the sofa. It was a quiet war between us.
From time to time, Id find my slippers or shoes booby-trappedcourtesy of some feline mischief. My wife would simply chuckle and say, Well, maybe dont tease him so much then, before cradling her darling and stroking his soft grey fur. The cat would gaze down at me, regal and indifferent, while I could only sigh. What could I do? My wife was one of a kindthere was nothing more to discuss. I had no choice but to endure it.
But that morning, everything changed.
As I was getting ready to leave for work, my wifes screams rang out from the hallway. I sprinted towards the sound, stopping dead at the scene before me: six kilograms of bristling grey fur and claws, all wild fury, lunging at her like a bull charging a matadors cape.
The moment the beast spotted me, he leaped at my chest, hitting me so hard that I tumbled backwards, landing with a thud in the corridor. I scrambled up, grabbed a kitchen chair, and, using it as a shield, pulled my wife by the hand toward our bedroom. The cat hurled himself at the legs of the chair and let out a heart-wrenching yowl as he struck it.
Still, he was relentless, launching attack after frenzied attack, until we managed to slam the bedroom door between us and him. We stood there, listening to the hiss and spit on the other side, then rummaged in the first-aid kit for spirits and iodine to dab on our shredded arms. Standing in the bedroom, my wife dialled her office with trembling fingers, explaining that our cat had gone berserk and that wed have to go to hospital instead of work. I called my manager straight after, repeating her words verbatim. And then
Then, the ground shook. The house seemed to inhale and shudder. From the kitchen came the sound of splintering glass; the bathroom window fractured with a loud crack. I dropped my phone in shock. Total silence fell.
Forgetting all about the cat, we rushed from the bedroom to the kitchen and peered out onto the street.
A gaping crater had opened up just beyond our building. Shards of twisted metalwhat was left of our neighbours small, gas-powered lorrylittered the car park. It must have exploded. Around it, other cars lay overturned, their wheels spinning helplessly in the air like stranded turtles, while the wailing of police cars and ambulances echoed in the distance.
Still stunned, my wife and I turned, as one, to the cat.
He sat quietly in the corner, cradling a broken front paw against his chest, whimpering softly.
My wife cried out and rushed to scoop him up, cradling him tenderly. I snatched the car keys from the dresser and we dashed down the stairs, skipping the lift and taking the steps two at a time for all seven storeys. Im sorry for those hurt by the blast, but we had our own little casualty to look after.
Our car, by some miracle, had been left unscathed around the back. We dove in and sped off to see our trusted vet. I was practically gnawing at my conscience the whole way, and as fate would have it, Michael Nymans The Heart Asks Pleasure First was playing on the radio, adding a mournful soundtrack to the journey.
An hour later, my wife emerged from the vets with her precious bundle in her arms. The cat, now sporting a bandaged paw, showed off his new war wound to the waiting room of pet owners. Once theyd heard what had happened, people rose from their seats to stroke and comfort our poor moggy.
Back home, my wife got straight to work preparing his favourite fish. She fried it just the way he liked, took out every last bone, and arranged the crisp flakes in a tidy little heap. I got the leftovers.
The cat, limping on three paws, hobbled over to his plate. Through the pain, he tried to muster that old contemptuous look my way, but all that came out was a grimace of pain.
I barely noticed at firstI was in a rush. But then, after a moment, I walked over, sat by his dish, and placed my own piece of fish, deboned, onto his plate.
He stared at me in silent amazement, hugging his injured paw to his chest, letting out a tentative, questioning mew.
I scooped him up and brought him to my face. Maybe I am a bit of a failure, I whispered, but with a wife and a cat like you, Im the luckiest failure in all of England. Then I kissed his furry head.
He purred quietly, nuzzling his big head against my cheek. I set him gently back down, and, wincing, he began eating his fish, while my wife and I, arms around one another, watched him and smiled.
From that day on, the cat slept with me. Hed peer up lovingly into my face, and in those moments, I prayed for nothing more than as many years as possible with him and my wife by my side.
Nothing else mattered.
Honestly.
Because thats what true happiness is.
