The cat slept between us, his back pressed firmly against my wife while all four paws shoved me away. Each morning, he’d stare at me with smug defiance. I’d protest, but what could I do? The “precious darling,” as he was called. “Sweetpea,” “Sunshine.” My wife laughed—I didn’t find it amusing.
This so-called “angel” had his fish meticulously deboned, the crispy skin arranged in a neat pile beside tender, steaming fillets on his dish. Meanwhile, I got the scraps he’d scorned. The creature smirked at me, his expression clear: *“You’re the loser here—I’m the true master.”*
He tormented me relentlessly. I retaliated by nudging him from his plate or shoving him off the sofa. War, plain and simple.
Sometimes, he’d leave “presents” in my slippers. My wife would chide, “Shouldn’t have crossed him,” while stroking her “Sunshine.” The cat gazed down his nose at me. I sighed. What choice did I have? My wife was my world. I endured.
But that morning…
As I prepared for work, a shriek echoed from the hallway. I rushed in to find six kilograms of fluffed fur, claws, and pure rage charging at my wife like a bull to a red rag. Spotting me, the beast launched at my chest, knocking me flat. Grabbing a chair as a shield, I dragged my wife into the bedroom. The cat collided with a chair leg, yowling—but kept attacking until we slammed the door shut.
We tended to our scratches with antiseptic, phoning our offices about the “deranged cat” requiring a hospital trip. Then—
The ground shuddered. Windows shattered. Deafening silence fell. Forgetting the cat, we sprinted to the kitchen. A crater gaped outside, debris from our neighbor’s exploded gas van littering the street. Overturned cars spun their wheels like upturned tortoises as sirens wailed in the distance.
Stunned, we turned to the cat. He huddled in a corner, cradling a broken paw, whimpering.
My wife scooped him up. I grabbed the car keys, and we bolted down seven flights. Our vehicle, mercifully unharmed, sped to the vet. Guilt gnawed at me—others were hurt, but *he* was ours.
An hour later, my wife cradled him in the clinic, his bandaged paw on display. Fellow pet owners cooed and stroked him, hearing his “heroic” tale.
Back home, she fried his favorite fish, removing bones, stacking crispy skins neatly. I got leftovers.
Limping to his bowl, he tried to glare but winced. Busy? Perhaps. But I quietly added my fillet—boneless—to his plate.
He stared, then mewed softly, injured paw tucked close.
I lifted him. “Maybe I’m a loser,” I murmured. “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 through tears.
Now, he sleeps curled against me, gazing up as if asking for forever. I pray each night for just that—more years with them both.
Nothing else matters.
Honestly.
Because this? This is happiness.
