Right, so off we went to visit the mother-in-law. Lovely.
She lived in a tiny village, in a little cottage right on the edge—and beyond that? Woods, a river, a lake, and fishing. Fresh air, birdsong, mushroom-picking, berry-gathering—paradise for my two German Shepherds. Which, by the way, my wife got despite all my protests and perfectly reasonable explanations. Look, you simply *cannot* keep two enormous dogs in a three-bed flat on the fifth floor. Long story short.
Actually, to make it *very* short, I was presented with a done deal and a solemn promise. The promise being that the wife and daughter would handle all the dog-walking. Yeah. Did you buy that? I didn’t, and I was right. Walking them fell to me, as did everything else. Typical.
Which brings me to our countryside escape—aka, the trip to the mother-in-law’s place. For me, it was supposed to be a holiday. Naturally, it turned into a full-blown work assignment: fixing up the house, tending the massive garden, and so on. By the end, I was dead on my feet, with no hope of fishing or foraging. The only ones truly living their best lives? The dogs. Absolute freedom—run wherever, do whatever. I was green with envy.
Then, on day two, they brought home a cat.
Not just any cat—a scraggly, flea-ridden old tom, black and white, looking like he’d seen better decades. The dogs stood in the hallway, whining like guilty toddlers, while the cat sat front and centre, oozing false humility. The mother-in-law, wife, and daughter—who, I should mention, were *not* the ones breaking their backs in the garden—immediately melted. Tears! Cooing! Clutching their chests in admiration at the *nobility* of our Shepherds.
The cat was welcomed with open arms. Washed, dried, fed, cuddled, *kissed*. Then he claimed my armchair. I got the stool.
They named him Poor Kitty. But I saw right through him. Poor Kitty? More like *Criminal Mastermind*.
For the entire two weeks of my hard labour, he played the angel. Charmed the ladies, frolicked with the dogs—total con artist. I prayed we’d leave him there. No such luck. After a dramatic showdown (won by my daughter), the mother-in-law packed him a care package of treats, kissed his nose, and off he went—to *our* home.
That’s when he revealed his true self. First order of business? Teaching two fully grown Shepherds who *really* ran the flat. The dogs emerged from that skirmish with scratched noses and a *very* clear understanding of their place in the hierarchy.
Wife and daughter adored Poor Kitty. Cats have a knack for stealing female hearts—unlike me, apparently.
Now, my walks involved two leashed dogs and Poor Kitty strolling freely like a tiny emperor. The only upside? The dogs marched in perfect formation, eyes *never* straying toward Their Feline Overlord. Neighbours were impressed. *”How’d you train them so well? Marching like soldiers!”* I’d just grimace. Poor Kitty could train *anyone*.
He’d plop himself in the middle of the park while we circled him. The dogs shot me pleading looks. Poor Kitty just watched, the stern expression of a CEO overseeing unpaid interns.
Then came the banned breeds.
A new chap moved in with his two illegal bull terriers—no leads, no muzzles. They’d already cleared the neighbourhood of cats and sent a few dogs to the vet. The moment we stepped out, he whipped out his phone, grinning as his monsters charged. They went for the dogs first—smart, since the leads would stop them fleeing. Poor Kitty and I? Dessert. Big mistake.
The dogs yanked their leads so hard I hit the dirt. As they flailed, I braced for disaster. But the only hero of this story? Poor Kitty.
One second, he was loafing. The next—a fanged tornado. The *sound* he made could’ve shattered glass. Two seconds later, Bull Terrier #1’s face was confetti. Bull Terrier #2? Already sprinting back to its owner, tail *firmly* tucked. The bloke kept filming, jaw on the floor.
Now, those terriers only go out leashed and muzzled—*and only when we’re not around*. If they spot Poor Kitty, they whimper, piddle, and hide behind their owner, who now walks them at *very* antisocial hours.
The dogs? They lick Poor Kitty’s paws now. No arguments. Even I—a grudging admirer—bring him salted fish when the girls are out. (I keep the beer for myself. Fair’s fair.)
Sometimes he lets me pet him. But his eyes? There’s something… *older* in there. Like the soul of a disgraced gladiator, doomed to atone as a cat.
Soon, we’re off to the mother-in-law’s again. More “holiday” labour. And I’ve got a nagging worry—
What if the dogs bring home *another* stray? A kitten? A fox?
I sigh, eyeing my four-legged circus. Then again…
Life’d be a lot duller without them.
Thoughts?.
