Well, here’s how it happened. 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, and beyond that—woods, a river, a lake, and fishing. Fresh air, birdsong, foraging for mushrooms and berries. Pure heaven for my two German Shepherds. Which, mind you, my wife had insisted on getting despite all my protests and reasoning. You simply can’t keep two massive dogs in a three-bedroom flat on the fifth floor.
Long story short.
Or rather—she dropped it on me like a done deal and made promises.
Promises like: *She* and our daughter would walk the dogs.
Yeah.
Did you believe that?
I didn’t, and I was right. *I* walked them. *I* took care of them.
That’s how it went.
So. A trip to the countryside—my mother-in-law’s place—felt like a holiday. At first. Naturally, it quickly turned into manual labour: fixing up the house, tending the garden, working the land. By the end, I was dead on my feet, and any dreams of fishing or foraging were long gone.
The only ones truly thriving? The dogs. Total freedom. Run where you want, do what you like.
And I envied them.
But on the second day, they brought home… a cat.
An old, mangy, flea-ridden thing, black and white, filthy.
The Shepherds stood in the hallway, whining desperately. The cat sat in front of them, putting on a show of meek innocence. Meanwhile, my mother-in-law, wife, and daughter—who’d barely lifted a finger with the chores (*that* was my job)—cooed and fawned, hands fluttering, tears welling, praising the noble hearts of our dogs.
The cat was welcomed with open arms. Washed, fed, cuddled, kissed. Then it claimed my armchair.
I got a stool.
They named him *Poor Kitty*.
But I saw right through him. That look, that swagger—*Poor Kitty* was really *Thug Face*.
For two whole weeks, while I slaved away at my mother-in-law’s, that creature played the angel. Charmed the women, won over the dogs.
I’d hoped, at least, to leave him behind there. But no.
After a battle of wills (lost by me, won by my daughter), my mother-in-law packed treats for her new feline darling, kissed his nose, and off he went—home with *us*.
And that’s when he unleashed his true self.
First order of business? Teach two hulking Shepherds who *really* ruled the flat. That skirmish ended with torn muzzles and a crushing realisation—they’d made a fatal mistake.
My wife and daughter adored *Poor Kitty*. Cats have a way with women. Unlike me.
Now, I walked the dogs on leads—and *Poor Kitty* strolled free. The only silver lining? The Shepherds marched in perfect formation, too scared to even glance at the cat, who strutted ahead, tail high.
Neighbours marvelled.
“How’d you train them so well? Marching in step!”
I’d just smirk darkly. *Poor Kitty* could train anyone.
He’d lounge in the middle of the park while we circled him like subjects. The dogs shot me pleading looks.
Then came the Pit Bulls.
Banned breeds, no muzzles, no leads. Their owner—a recent transplant to the area—clearly wanted to establish dominance.
They’d already cleared the yard of every other cat and sent a few dogs to the vet.
When we stepped out, the place was empty. Everyone had fled.
Then they saw us. My Shepherds in formation, *Poor Kitty* leading.
The Pit Bulls crept closer, then lunged—aiming for the dogs first, saving the cat and me for dessert.
Bad move.
The Shepherds yanked their leads so hard I hit the dirt. They tried to bolt, failed, and as I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for horror—*Poor Kitty* transformed.
One second, he was a lazy observer. The next, a demon.
The noise he made as he launched at the first Pit Bull could’ve shattered glass. Two seconds later, that dog’s face was shredded. The second Pit Bull cowered, then fled, howling, to its owner—who just stood there, phone out, recording.
Live-streamed humiliation.
Now, those Pit Bulls are walked on leads, muzzled—but *only* when *Poor Kitty* isn’t out. Because if they see him? They tuck tail, whimper, and piddle themselves. Their owner sneaks them out at dawn or midnight to avoid the shame.
The Shepherds lick their saviour’s paws now. No more squabbles. And me? I’ll admit—if not for him…
So. My relationship with *Poor Kitty* has changed. When the women are out, I crack open a couple of beers and a pack of salted fish. The beer’s mine. The fish? Shared fairly with my tiny defender.
The dogs watch silently. They know better.
Sometimes he lets me pet him. But his eyes—there’s something in them. Not *Poor Kitty*. Something older. Something that’s seen battle. Something damned.
Soon, we’ll visit my mother-in-law again. More labour. More “holiday.”
And one thought nags at me—what if the dogs bring home *another* stray? A kitten? A fox?
I sigh, eyeing my four-legged circus, and realise—without them, life would be a hundred times duller.
Aye.
What do *you* think?
