The cat slept with my wife. And by slept with, I mean he planted himself right up against her back and shoved at me with all four legs, as if Id made some kind of social faux pas by existing. In the morning, hed give me this brazen, smug lookone that said, You again? Dont you get it, mate? Im the favourite. Id grumble, of course, but what could I do? He was, apparently, the chosen one. The precious darling, the little sunbeam. My wife would just laugh and laugh, while I sat there nursing my wounded pride.
This so-called sunbeam got his fish cooked separately. Shed debone it with the focus of a heart surgeon, then arrange the golden, crispy skin in a neat little tower next to the steaming, juicy chunks on his plate. Id get whatever bits didnt pass His Lordships inspection. And if he deigned to glance my way, it was always with that wonky smirk that somehow screamed, Im the real master here, you know.
Naturally, I fought back the only way I couldby gently nudging him off the sofa, or discreetly reclaiming my side of the bed. War had been declared, make no mistake. Every so often, hed leave a present in my slippers, timed perfectly to detonate as I put them on. My wife thought this was hysterical. Well, leave him alone, then! shed giggle, patting her golden boy. The grey cat looked at me with a kind of benevolent disdain, as though I was some hopeless intern in his very important business. Id sigh. What could I do? I had one wife, and on this matter, negotiations were closed. Patience was my only hope. Until this morning.
This morning, just as I was getting ready for work, I heard my wifes horrified yell from the hallway. I dashed out to discover a six-kilo tornado of fur, claws, and extremely bad attitude launching himself at my wife like a bull at a red scarf. Spotting me, the beast leapt at my chest and pushed so hard I toppled out of the hallway and onto the floor. Scrambling up, I grabbed a chair for defence and, brandishing it like a lion tamer, dragged my wife toward the bedroom. The cat nearly knocked himself senseless against the leg of the chair and let out an indignant yowl that wouldve made any banshee proud.
Did that slow him down? Not one bit. He pelted after us until I finally shut the bedroom door behind us. For a few moments, we just listened to the satanic hiss on the other side. Then we rummaged in the first-aid kit for the Savlon and plasters and tended each others battle wounds. My wife rang her office and explained, quite seriously, that the cat had gone berserk, thoroughly scratched us, and wed have to swap work for a trip to A&E. I called my boss next and gave an identical rundown. And just as I was hanging up…
The house shook with a deep, shuddering groan. Glass shattered in the kitchen; the bathroom window cracked. I dropped my mobile on the floor. An eerie silence settled over us. Forgetting all about the feline terrorist, we bolted out to the kitchen and peered out the window.
A tremendous crater yawned in front of the house, with bits of car flung about like confetti. It was the neighbours little gas-powered delivery vanit mustve blown sky-high. The car park looked like a sea of upturned turtles, bonnets and wheels pointing every direction. Police and ambulance sirens wailed somewhere off in the distance.
Dazed, my wife and I swivelled in unison to look at the cat. There he was, huddled in a corner, cradling his poor mangled right paw to his chest, crying softly. My wife gasped, scooped him up and hugged him tight. I grabbed the car keys and we hurtled down the stairs, leaping over steps seven floors down. Forget what anyone might say about prioritiesour wounded had whiskers.
Luckily, our car was parked out back, undamaged. We tore off for the vets. Guilt gnawed at my insides the whole way, with Ralph Vaughan Williams The Lark Ascendingof all thingsdrifting out of the car radio. It was like my conscience had curated the soundtrack.
An hour later, we stepped out of the vets surgery, my wife cradling her precious bundle, and himwell, he was putting on quite the show, parading his bandaged paw for the waiting rooms approval. When people heard his tale, they practically lined up to give him a stroke.
Back at home, my wife whipped up his favourite fish, deboned it just so, and created the usual miniature pyramid of crispy skin. The leftover scraps landed on my plate. The cat, hobbling on three legs, limped up to his dish, gave me an attempted sneerthough his face twisted with pain instead.
I was supposed to be in a rush, but I paused, set my own piece of fishbones removedonto his plate and gave him a pat. He stared at me in muted disbelief, tucking his bandaged leg closer and giving a plaintive, questioning meow.
I picked him up, brought him face to face, and said, Alright, maybe I am a bit of a loser. But with you and my wife, I reckon Im the luckiest loser in all of England. Then I kissed his furry head.
He purred softly and rubbed his forehead against my cheek. I lowered him to the floor, and, wincing, he tucked into his dinner. My wife and I watched him from the sofa, arms wrapped around each other, grinning like fools.
And from that day forth, the cat slept only with me. He stares right into my face at night, and I pray for just one thingthat I get as many years as possible with him and my wife at my side. Nothing else matters, honestly. Thats real happinesscross my heart.
