A man walks into his house and gasps…

Six months ago, he was given a tiny kitten named Bolt. His niece, who occasionally visited with her family, had found the little one on the street. Handing Bolt over, she said:

“You live alone. Never managed to find yourself a partner. Your job’s stressful—driving a bus all day. At least when you come home, someone’ll be happy to see you. Cats bring comfort, you know…”

Well, well. He believed her. Why not? Seemed reasonable enough. Come home frazzled after passengers and reckless drivers who never yield, and there—curled up on the sofa, purring, meowing, demanding cuddles.

Of course, ladies and gentlemen, you can guess where this is going. The cat did *not* meet his expectations. The sweet, docile kitten became a chaotic adolescent. Bolt hated being held but adored mischief—oh, he was brilliant at that.

In his inexperience, the man bought a fly swatter, using it liberally on pesky houseflies—tiny zippy ones or those fat, sluggish ones people call horseflies.

Bolt watched intently as his human swung the swatter, absorbing every move. Gathering intel. And one day, he decided to impress his owner.

Now, back to where we began…

***

The man steps inside—and freezes. Nothing. Absolutely nothing remains in its place. The devastation suggests two rival gangs brawled in his flat, smashing everything in sight.

Chairs overturned. Vases, glasses, anything that had sat on tables, windowsills, or cabinets now litters the floor in shattered heaps of glass, ceramic, and plastic.

The curtains hang in tatters, like some avant-garde fashion statement. And the kitchen? Ketchup bleeds into pickles and jam. Neat little mounds of salt, sugar, and pepper are scattered about. Forks and spoons lie strewn. The curtain rod, torn down entirely, rests atop the chaos. And right there, in the middle of the wreckage—perched on the now-bare dining table—

Bolt. Utterly pleased with himself.

Before him lies a fly. Massive, like a bomber plane. He gazes at his human with the triumphant gleam of a champion, purring loudly.

*Any minute now*, he thinks. *Any minute, he’ll praise me*.

He spent *all day* chasing that insolent insect—wore himself out, but *finally* caught it. Surely, this deserves reward. So thrilled by the thought, his paws knead the air.

The man grabs a chair and drops into it. Where to even start? Clean? Eat? Scold the cat? But before he can decide, the doorbell rings.

He opens the door—and his shock doubles.

Three police officers stand there, backed by a crowd of neighbors. The officers’ hands hover near their holsters.

“We received calls,” one begins.

“*Many* calls,” adds another. “Reports of loud crashes, screaming—sounded like furniture smashing. Mind if we take a quick look? And for safety—hands on your head, please. Step into the corner.”

The neighbors stare, equal parts fearful and disapproving.

The man sighs. “Right. Come in.”

He complies, stepping back as the officers survey the carnage, scanning each room.

“Looking for something?” he asks.

“A body,” one replies. “And your explanation.”

“Ah! The *body*—right this way.”

The officers tense, fingers twitching toward their guns. Carefully, the man edges toward the kitchen and flings the door open with a flourish.

“Here you go.”

They shove past him—only to freeze.

There, on the table, sits Bolt. Gloating. The fly twitches before him.

Silence. Then—snorts. Laughter. The officers double over, helpless, while Bolt preens. *See? Everyone’s happy. Worth the effort.*

They spend half an hour taking photos with Bolt and the fly, posing amid the wreckage. Everyone’s delighted. Especially the cat.

***

After they leave, the man slumps back onto the chair.

“Need a hand?”

He turns. A woman from the first floor stands there.

“Day off today,” she says, smiling. “You’ll be here all night alone. Together, we’ll manage faster.”

“Don’t want to trouble you—”

“Nonsense. I’ve got nothing else on. Just me and my mum—she lives nearby.” She eyes Bolt, now batting the fly across the table. “You going to punish this little troublemaker?”

The man sighs, scoops Bolt up. “*You*—naughty, *awful* creature. *This* is unacceptable. Understand?”

Bolt squirms, then—lick! Right on the cheek. The man kisses his nose.

“Good. Lesson learned. Never again.”

He sets Bolt down. The cat struts off, tail high, rubbing against the woman’s legs. She laughs.

“Some scolding that was. How’ve I never noticed you before?”

“Dunno,” he admits. “Maybe I was miserable before. Now?” He gestures at the wreckage. “*Happiness*.”

She calls a handyman. Next day, fine mesh covers every window—Bolt can safely lounge, watching birds and fat flies.

They clean, tossing broken dishes, mopping, ditching shredded curtains. Then—shopping. New ones.

By evening, they’re back. Snacks, cake, champagne. A housewarming—same flat, new beginnings.

They chat, laughing at the table. Bolt sprawls across her lap, already plotting his *next* grand gesture.

***

So, it all worked out. Bolt, naturally, remains tirelessly *helpful*. Dad and new mum tidy up his chaos together.

And why? Because she took one look at Bolt and saw *her* cat.

So now they’re a team.

What else?

How else?

No other way.