The cat slept with my wife. He pressed his back against her, shoving me away with all four paws. Each morning, he’d stare at me with smug defiance. I’d complain, but it was useless. The “darling,” you see. The “precious angel.” My wife laughed—I didn’t find it funny.
This so-called “angel” had fresh mackerel fried for him daily, bones meticulously removed, the crispy skin piled neatly beside steaming, tender chunks on his dish. The cat would smirk at me, his expression clear: *“You’re the loser here. I’m the true master.”*
I got the scraps he refused. He tormented me relentlessly. I retaliated—nudging him from his plate, pushing him off the sofa. A silent war.
Occasionally, he’d leave “surprises” in my slippers. My wife would chide, “Don’t provoke him,” while stroking her “sunshine.” The cat gazed down at me like a bored aristocrat. I sighed. What could I do? She was my only wife. I endured.
But that morning…
As I prepared for work, a shriek echoed from the hall. Rushing in, I found six kilograms of fur, claws, and fury charging at my wife like a bull at a red flag. Spotting me, the beast leaped onto my chest, knocking me flat. I grabbed a chair as a shield, yanked my wife’s arm, and dragged her to the bedroom. The cat collided with a chair leg, yowling—but kept attacking until we slammed the door. We stood, breathless, listening to hisses outside, then patched our scratches with antiseptic.
My wife called her office, explaining our deranged cat required a hospital visit. I echoed the tale to my boss. Then—
The ground shuddered. Windows shattered. A deafening silence fell. We sprinted to the kitchen: a crater gaped outside, neighbor’s gas-powered van obliterated, cars flipped like helpless tortoises. Sirens wailed in the distance.
Stunned, we turned. The cat crouched in a corner, cradling a broken paw, whimpering.
My wife scooped him up. I snatched car keys, and we bolted down seven flights. Our Rover, parked behind the building, sped us to the vet. Guilt gnawed at me—others were injured, but *he* was ours.
An hour later, my wife cradled him in the clinic. Bandaged, he held court as waiting pet owners fawned over him.
Home again, she fried his mackerel, skin crisped just so, bones discarded. I got leftovers. Limping to his bowl, he tried to glare but winced. Busy? Hardly. I slid my portion—deboned—into his dish.
He blinked, paw tucked close, mewing softly.
I lifted him. “Maybe I’m a loser. But with a wife like mine and a cat like you? I’m the luckiest man alive.”
He purred, bumping my cheek with his head.
We watched him eat, smiling. Now, he sleeps curled against me, gazing up as if to say, *Stay*.
I pray for nothing else. Just this—her, him, us.
Honestly.
That’s enough.
