The Cat Slept With My Wife: Rivalry, Revenge, and Redemption—From Furry Little Tyrant to Hero After …

The cat sleeps with my wife every night. He presses his back against her and stretches out, pushing me away with all four paws. In the morning, he looks me in the eye with the most brazen, mocking stare. I grumble about it, but theres nothing I can do. Hes the beloved one, after allthe darling, the sunshine. My wife laughs, but I cant find the humour in it.

This little sunshine gets the royal treatmentpan-fried fish, every bone carefully removed, the crispy, delicious skin neatly stacked beside warm, steaming, juicy bites on his dish. When he stares at me, it’s with a twisted smirk that seems to say: Youre the unlucky one here; the real favourite and master is me.

What I get from the fish are just the leftover trimmings that the wretched creature cant be bothered with. In short, he torments me as much as he can. And I retaliate as much as I dare, gently nudging him away from the fish, nudging him off the sofa. Its a bit of warfare, really.

Sometimes mines are planted in my slippers or brogues, if you get my meaning. My wife just laughs, saying, Well, you shouldnt tease him, all while stroking her darlings fur. Our grey cat gazes at me with the kind of condescension youd expect from royalty. I sigh. What can I do? I only have one wife, after all, so theres nothing much to discuss. I simply have to put up with it. But this morning

This morning, as Im getting ready for work, I hear my wifes desperate scream from the hallway. I rush out to see an utter spectacle. A six-kilogram whirlwind of fur, claws, and mischief is launching itself at my wife, like a bull at a red flag.

When he spots me, the beast leaps straight at my chest, pushing me backwards so that I tumble out of the hall and onto the floor. Scrambling up, I grab a chair and use it as a shield, seizing my wifes hand and pulling her into the bedroom. The cat lunges but crashes into one of the chairs legs, yelping in painan awful, piercing cry.

That doesnt stop him, though. He keeps coming until we slam the bedroom door shut behind us. Inside, we stand, listening to the furious hissing on the other side. Then we fetch the first-aid kit and start dabbing our many scratches with rubbing alcohol and iodine. While in the bedroom, my wife phones work to explain that our cat has gone absolutely mad and scratched us up, and we need to go to hospital instead of coming in. After her, I call my manager and repeat the same story word for word.

And then

Suddenly, the ground shudderstheres a deep, uneasy moanand the whole house rocks. The windows in the kitchen shatter and blow out, and the bathrooms outer pane cracks with a sharp sound. I drop the phone. A deafening silence follows. Forgetting all about the cat, we dash from the bedroom to the kitchen and peer outside.

In front of the building, a gaping crater has opened up. Debris from a lorry is scattered everywhereour neighbours small gas-powered lorry, loaded with several gas cylinders. It looks as if it exploded. On the car park, other vehicles are overturned and flung about, wheels spinning helplessly like flipped-over tortoises. In the distance, the sirens of police and ambulances wail.

Dazed and dumbfounded, my wife and I turn in unison to find the cat. Hes hunkered down in a corner, clutching his injured front right leg to his chest, whimpering quietly.

My wife cries out and rushes to him, scooping him into her arms and holding him close. I fumble for the car keys in my pocket, and together we rush downstairs, skipping the lift and bounding down the steps two at a timeall seven flights, not saying a single word.

I hope those hurt in the explosion can forgive me, but at that moment, we had our own casualty.

Thankfully, our car is parked safely behind the building. We dive in and race to our trusted vet. My heart is in absolute turmoil, scraping along to the dreadful tune wafting from the radiosomehow, Michael Nymans The Heart Asks Pleasure First is playing, which does nothing to improve my mood.

An hour later, we leave the vets, my wife cradling her precious bundle. The cat, his leg carefully bandaged, holds it up for everyone in the waiting room to see. When they hear whats happened, people rise from their seats and come over to stroke our cat and offer sympathy.

Back home, my wife cooks up his favourite fish. She carefully removes the bones, lays out the crisp, savoury skin just how he likes it, and gives me the leftovers.

The cat, limping on three legs, approaches his dish, grimacing from the pain as he looks at me. He wants to offer his usual disdainful glare but only manages a pained grimace instead.

Im busy with something at the table, but when Im finished, I walk over and place my untouched, deboned fish beside his.

He looks up at me in mute wonder, clutching his injured leg to his chest and letting out a questioning little meow.

Lifting him into my arms, I bring him close and say,
Perhaps I am an unlucky fellow, but if Ive got a wife like mine and a cat like you, that makes me just about the happiest unlucky man alive. And I give him a kiss on his furry face.

The cat purrs softly and nudges my cheek with his big, fluffy head. I set him gently on the floor, and he starts to eat, wincing with every bite. My wife and I, arm in arm, watch him and smile.

From that day on, the cat sleeps only with me. He gazes into my face, and every night I pray for just one thingto have as many years as possible with him and my wife by my side.

Truly, I need nothing else. Honestly.

Because this, right here, is true happiness.