Well, here we are. We went to visit the mother-in-law, you see. Aye.
She lived in a little village, in a small cottage right on the edge of town, and beyond that—well, beyond lay the woods, the river, the lake, and good fishing. Fresh air, birdsong, mushroom and berry picking. A paradise for my two German shepherds. Which, mind you, my wife had gotten despite all my protests and reasoning. Impossible, really, to keep two great big dogs in a three-bedroom flat on the fifth floor.
But to cut a long story short—or rather, to make it shorter—I was presented with a fait accompli and given a promise. The promise went like this: the wife and daughter would walk the dogs.
Aye.
Did you believe that?
I didn’t, and I was right. It fell to me to walk them, to care for them—the whole lot.
So then, off to the countryside we went, to the mother-in-law’s place. To me, it felt like a holiday—which, of course, swiftly turned into chores, repairs, and toiling in her sprawling garden. By the time night fell, I was dead on my feet, too worn out to dream of fishing or foraging.
The only ones truly happy were the shepherds. Freedom! Run where you like, as long as you like, do as you please. And I envied them something fierce.
But then, on the second day, they brought home a cat.
An old tom, black and white, filthy, flea-ridden—the works. The dogs stood in the hallway, whining and pleading with their eyes. The cat sat before them, all false contrition and humility. Meanwhile, the mother-in-law, my wife, and daughter—who’d barely lifted a finger in the garden—well, they melted. Tears, cooing, flapping hands, ohs and ahs over the “nobility” of our shepherds.
The cat was welcomed with open arms. Washed, dried, fed, fussed over, smothered in kisses. Then he made himself right at home—in my chair.
For me? A stool.
They named him “Poor Kitty.”
But I saw the truth in his eyes and the way he carried himself. Poor Kitty was nothing but a Bandit King in disguise.
For two whole weeks while I slaved away, that creature played the angel. Toyed with the women and the dogs, won their hearts.
I’d hoped, at least, to leave him there—but no. After a battle of wills my daughter won, the mother-in-law packed treats for her new feline darling, kissed his nose, and off he went—back to our flat.
And at home, oh, he showed his true colours. First order of business? Show the two hulking shepherds who ruled the roost. That skirmish ended with torn muzzles and a new, humbling understanding—they had gravely misjudged their lot in life.
The wife and daughter adored Poor Kitty. Cats know how to worm their way into a woman’s heart, don’t they? Unlike me.
So now, when I walked the dogs, they trotted obediently on leashes while Poor Kitty strolled free. The only silver lining? The shepherds fell into perfect step, never daring to glance at the cat with his tail held high. Neighbours marvelled:
“However did you train them so well? Marching in line—what a sight!”
I’d smirk grimly. Poor Kitty could train anyone.
Usually, he’d sprawl in the middle of the green, and we’d circle him like subjects before a king. His stern gaze pinned us in place; the dogs stared at me, pleading.
Then came the pit bulls. Banned breeds, no less, but their owner—new to the neighbourhood—had decided to make a statement. No muzzles, no leashes. First, they cleared the yard of local cats. Sent a few dogs to the vet. By the time we arrived, the place was deserted.
Till they saw us.
The owner, grinning, filmed as they slunk close, aiming first for the shepherds—thinking the leashes would trap them.
They’d saved Poor Kitty and me for dessert. A mistake.
The dogs bolted, yanking me flat. As I hit the dirt, eyes shut, bracing for carnage—well. The only courage shown that day belonged to Poor Kitty.
One heartbeat, he was lounging. The next—a fury unleashed. The sound he made could’ve woken the dead.
Two seconds later, the first pit bull’s face was ribbons. The second fled, howling, tail tucked.
Their owner kept filming, slack-jawed. Oh, and—aye. It was live.
Now, those pit bulls wear muzzles and short leads. Only at dawn or midnight, though—lest they cross paths with us. When they do? Whimpering, tails between legs, hiding behind their master.
The shepherds lick their saviour clean now. No more squabbles. And me? Well, I know how things would’ve ended without him.
So now, when the wife and daughter are out, I fetch two bottles of ale and a couple of salted herrings. The ale’s mine, but the fish? Shared fairly with my furry defender. The dogs watch in silence—wise creatures.
Sometimes he lets me pet him. But in his eyes… something lingers. Not Poor Kitty. Something older. A warrior’s soul, maybe, paying for past sins.
Soon, we’ll visit the mother-in-law again. More labour masked as leisure. And a thought nags me—
What if the dogs bring back another stray? A kitten, a fox…?
I sigh, eyeing my four-legged circus. Then again—life without them? A hundred times duller, I reckon.
Aye. What do you think?
