The man stepped into his house and gasped…

Six months ago, he’d been given a tiny kitten named Bolt. His niece, who sometimes visited with her family, had found the little fellow on the street. Handing him over, she’d said:
*”You live alone. Still haven’t found someone. Your job’s stressful—bus driving. Come home, and here’s someone happy to see you. Cats bring comfort, you know…”*

Well, he’d believed her. Why not? Maybe it was true. After a day of frayed nerves from passengers and other drivers refusing to yield, coming home to a creature curled peacefully on the sofa—meowing, purring, clambering onto his lap for strokes—sounded ideal.

But, ladies and gentlemen, you understand, don’t you? That was inexperience talking. The cat did not meet his expectations. The obedient, sweet kitten had morphed into a scallywag of a teenager. Sitting still for cuddles? No chance. Mischief? Absolutely!

In his inexperience, the man had bought a fly swatter, which he wielded against tiny, darting flies or the fat, sluggish ones people called “dung flies.” Bolt watched intently, absorbing every furious swing. Collecting data, perhaps. Until, one day, he decided to please his human. And oh, he succeeded…

Now, back to where we began.

The man stepped inside and froze. Nothing. Not a single thing remained upright or intact. The wreckage suggested two rival gangs had staged a brutal brawl in his flat—armed with cricket bats! Chairs lay overturned. Vases, glasses, everything from tabletops and windowsills now shattered across the floor in a mosaic of glass, ceramic, and plastic.

The curtains hung in tatters, like some fashionista’s shredded skirt. The kitchen was worse—ketchup bled into pickled tomatoes and jam. Neat mounds of salt, sugar, and pepper dotted the chaos. Forks and spoons lay in scattered heaps. The kitchen curtains, torn down with their rods, sprawled atop the mess. And in the center of the bare dining table…

Sat an immensely pleased Bolt, with a single fly before him. Enormous, like a biplane. The cat gazed at his human with the triumphant eyes of a champion, purring proudly.

*Now*, he thought. *Now* he’d be praised. All day, tirelessly, he’d chased that cheeky fly. Exhausted, yes—but victorious! And now, proof in paw, he awaited his well-earned reward. The very thought made his toes knead the air.

The man righted a chair and collapsed onto it. Where to even begin? Clean up? Eat? Scold Bolt? But before he could decide, the doorbell rang. He trudged to the hall and opened it—only to gape.

Three police officers stood in the corridor, backed by a dozen neighbours. Their hands hovered near their holsters.
*”We’ve had calls…”* began one.
*”Many calls,”* added another. *”Reports of… disturbances. Furniture crashing, plates breaking. Screaming. May we come in? And, ah—hands on your head, please. Step into the corner.”*

The neighbours stared, a mix of fear and disapproval.

*”Ah,”* said the man. *”Right. Come in.”* He obliged, stepping back as instructed.

The officers prowled the flat, surveying the carnage, peering into each room.
*”What are you looking for?”* the man asked.
*”A body,”* said an officer. *”And an explanation.”*

*”A body! Yes, I’ll show you the body,”* the man agreed.

The officers tensed, hands dropping to their belts. Moving carefully along the wall, the man led them to the kitchen. With a flourish, he swept the door open.

*”Here!”* he announced. *”The body.”*

They shoved past him—only to freeze.

The “body” sat smugly on the table, basking in attention. Before it lay the fly.

Silence. Then—laughter. One officer cracked first, and the rest followed, howling until tears streamed. Bolt watched, triumphant. *See?* his expression said. *Everyone’s happy. Worth the effort!*

For half an hour, the officers took photos—Bolt in their arms, the fly, the wreckage—everyone delighted. Especially the cat. At last, his hard work was recognised!

Later, once the police and neighbours had gone, the man sank back onto his chair.

*”I’ll help,”* said a voice.

He turned. A woman from the ground floor stood there.
*”My day off,”* she said, smiling. *”You’ll be at this all night. Together, we’ll manage.”*
*”I can’t impose—”* he stammered.

*”Nonsense,”* she said. *”I’ve nothing better to do. Just me and my mum nearby.”* She nodded at Bolt, who was batting the fly across the table. *”Will you punish this scoundrel? Or at least tell him off?”*

*”Tell him off…”* The man sighed, scooped Bolt up, and scolded, *”You dreadful little beast! Look at this mess! Shame on you.”*

Bolt kneaded the air—*such lovely scolding!*—then licked the man’s cheek. The man kissed his nose.
*”Good lad,”* he murmured. *”Understood? No repeats.”*

He set Bolt down. The cat arched his tail and rubbed against the woman’s legs. She laughed.
*”Some telling-off,”* she teased. *”How’ve I never noticed you before?”*

*”Dunno,”* the man said. *”Maybe I was miserable before. Now, with Bolt… well, look at the mess. Happiness, right?”*

She called a handyman; by morning, fine mesh covered every window. Bolt could lounge on the sill, watching birds and fat, untouchable flies.

They cleaned together—shards bagged, floors mopped, ruined curtains binned. Then off to the shops for replacements. By evening, they returned with snacks, a fancy cake, and champagne. To celebrate, of course. A housewarming—for the same flat. With her.

At the kitchen table, they ate, drank, talked. Content. Especially Bolt, curled on her lap, already plotting… his next *assistance*.

So, all’s well that ends well. Bolt, naturally, helps *both* now—Dad and the new Mum. Who only came because she’d found *him*, recognised him as her darling kitty.

Now, they tidy his handiwork *together*.

And really—what else did you expect?

How *else* could it be?