The Feline’s Nightly Challenge

The cat slept with my wife. He’d curl up against her back and kick me away. Every morning, he’d stare at me with pure defiance and mockery. I protested, of course, but there was nothing I could do. He was the spoiled one in the house. Her “sweetie” and “little sky.” My wife would laugh — she found it adorable. I… not so much.

For that “sweetie,” we would fry little fish just for him. Then, we’d remove the bones with great care, and place the crispy skin alongside the tender, steaming pieces on his plate.

The little furball would look at me with a smug expression, as if saying:
“You’re the loser here; I’m the master of the house.”

I was left with the scraps — whatever he turned his nose up at. And he didn’t hold back. He went out of his way to torment me. I retaliated the only ways I could: pushing him away from the plate or shoving him off the couch. It was an all-out war.

Sometimes, I’d find little “gifts” in my shoes. My wife, laughing, would say:
— Don’t provoke him… you probably deserved it.

And then she’d pet her “little treasure.” The cat would glance at me with royal superiority. I’d just sigh. What could I do? My wife was one of a kind — I put up with everything for her.

But that morning…

As I was getting ready for work, a blood-curdling scream echoed from the hallway. I ran and saw six kilos of puffed-up fur, claws, and bad temper charging at my wife like a bull charging a red cape.

The moment he saw me, the beast leapt onto my chest and knocked me to the floor. I grabbed a chair as a shield, dragged my wife into the bedroom, and slammed the door shut. The cat slammed into the chair leg and let out a pitiful yowl.

But he didn’t back down. He kept attacking until we managed to barricade ourselves inside. We could still hear his growls and hissing as we treated our scratches with alcohol and iodine.

My wife called her office:
— The cat’s gone mad. We’re heading to the hospital.

I told the same story to my boss. Then suddenly…

A massive explosion shook the building.
The kitchen windows shattered; the bathroom mirror cracked. My phone slipped from my hands. Total silence. Forgetting about the cat, we ran to the kitchen and looked out the window.

Right in front of the building, a smoking crater. The remains of an overturned gas van were scattered across the street. Wrecked cars spun their wheels in the air like turtles flipped on their backs. Sirens wailed in the distance.

Stunned, we turned to look at the cat. Curled up in a corner, he held his injured front paw and let out a faint, trembling meow.

My wife scooped him into her arms. I grabbed the car keys and we rushed down seven flights of stairs. Our car, parked behind the building, raced to the vet. I felt a tight knot in my stomach the entire way.

An hour later, my wife came out of the clinic with our “treasure” in her arms. His paw was bandaged, and he was receiving gentle caresses from the other pet owners in the waiting room. After hearing what happened, everyone gathered around to pet him — as if he were a little hero.

Back at home, my wife prepared his favorite fish — deboned, with the crispy skin laid out perfectly on his plate. For me, as always, the leftovers.

The cat, limping, approached his food. He tried to shoot me his usual disdainful glance, but only managed a grimace of pain.
I placed my own portion in his dish, clean and bone-free.

He looked at me, surprised. Lifted his injured paw and let out a shy little meow.

I picked him up and whispered:
— Maybe I am a loser. But with a woman like you and a cat like him, I’m the luckiest man alive.

I kissed his little nose. He purred and nuzzled his head against my cheek.

When I set him down, he started eating slowly, with difficulty. My wife and I, wrapped in each other’s arms, smiled as we watched him.

Since that day, the cat sleeps by my side. He stares at me every night, and I ask God for only one thing: to give me years enough to keep them both close.

Nothing else matters.
Word of honor.
Because that, truly, is what happiness is all about.