**Diary Entry: A Visit to the In-Laws**
Well, here’s the thing. We went to visit my mother-in-law. Right.
She lived in a tiny village, in a small cottage right on the edge of town, where the wild began. Beyond it: woods, a river, a lake, and fishing. Fresh air, birdsong, mushroom and berry picking—a paradise for my two Alsatians. Which, mind you, my wife got despite all my objections. Two massive dogs in a three-bedroom flat on the fifth floor? Impossible.
Long story short.
Or rather, short story long—I was presented 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. It fell to me—walking, feeding, the lot.
That’s how it goes.
So, a trip to the countryside—my mother-in-law’s place—felt like a holiday. Or it should’ve. Instead, it became a never-ending cycle of chores: fixing up the house, working the garden, hauling logs. By the end of the day, I was too knackered to even dream of fishing or foraging.
The only ones truly enjoying themselves were the dogs. Freedom to run, dig, do as they pleased. I envied them.
Then, on the second day, they brought home… a cat.
An ancient, mangy, flea-ridden tom, black and white with a stare like he’d seen the worst of life. The Alsatians stood in the hallway, whining like pleading barristers. The cat sat primly, oozing false humility. My mother-in-law, wife, and daughter—who’d dodged most of the hard labour—cooed over him like he was some noble saviour.
He was washed, fed, cuddled, christened *Poor Kitty*, and promptly claimed my armchair. I got the stool.
But I knew better. That cat wasn’t *Poor Kitty*. He was *Criminal Face*. For two weeks, while I toiled like a serf, he played the angel—charming the women, tolerating the dogs, winning hearts. I hoped, desperately, we’d leave him behind. No such luck. After a tearful battle (won by my daughter), he was packed off with us, along with treats and a kiss on the nose from my mother-in-law.
At home, his true nature emerged. First, he established dominance over the Alsatians, leaving them with scratched noses and a newfound respect. My wife and daughter adored him. Cats, unlike me, know how to worm into women’s affections.
Now, I walked the dogs *and* *Criminal Face*—off-lead, of course. The only upside? The Alsatians heeled perfectly, too afraid to even glance at him. Neighbours marvelled: *”How’d you train them so well?”* I’d just smirk. That cat could train a brick wall.
He’d sprawl in the middle of the park while we circled him, the dogs eyeing me like *Please, save us*. Then came the pit bulls.
A new neighbour, fresh to the estate, strutted about with two unleashed bull terriers—banned breeds, no less. They’d already cleared the park of every other dog and cat. When they spotted us, they slunk close, planning an ambush. Their owner even started filming, grinning.
The pit bulls lunged—first at the Alsatians, thinking the leads would trap them. Bad move.
The dogs yanked me flat on my back. As I braced for carnage, *Criminal Face* transformed. One screech—louder than a fire alarm—and he was on them. Two seconds later, one pit bull’s face was ribbons; the other fled, yelping. The owner kept filming, jaw slack.
Now? Those bull terriers are muzzled and leashed—*except* when we’re out. If they see *Criminal Face*, they piss themselves and hide behind their owner, who now walks them at dawn. The Alsatians lick their feline overlord’s paws. Even I’ve warmed to the devil. When the women are out, I crack open two beers and a tin of sardines. I take the beer; he gets the fish. The dogs watch, wisely silent.
Sometimes he lets me pet him. But his eyes—they’re not a *Poor Kitty’s*. More like some ancient warrior’s, stuck in a cat’s body for his sins.
Soon, we’re off to the in-laws again. More backbreaking labour disguised as a holiday.
And I’ve got a bad feeling. What if the dogs bring home another stray? A kitten? A fox?
I sigh, look at my motley crew, and realise:
Life without them? A hundred times duller.
That’s the truth of it. What do *you* think?
