The man stepped into his home and gasped…

Half a year ago, he had been given a tiny kitten named Brisk. His niece, who occasionally visited with her family, had found the little fellow on the street. As she handed him over, she said,
“You live alone. Never seem to find anyone. And your job’s so stressful—driving a bus all day. Come home, and here’s someone who’s glad to see you. Cats bring comfort, you know…”

Well, he believed her. Why not? Work left him worn down—passengers shouting, other drivers refusing to yield—and there Brisk would be, curled up on the sofa, purring, rubbing against him, begging for affection.

But, of course, ladies and gentlemen, he was naïve. The cat didn’t live up to expectations. That sweet little kitten became a rowdy adolescent. Cuddling? No. Mischief? Absolutely.

In his ignorance, the man bought a flyswatter to deal with the pests—nimble little ones or the fat, sluggish ones they called “horseflies.” And Brisk, he watched. Studied. Took mental notes. Until one day, he decided to help his human. And help he did…

Now, back to where we began.

The man walked in and froze. Nothing—absolutely nothing—remained in its place. The devastation suggested a gang brawl, trashed not with fists but cricket bats. Chairs overturned. Vases, glasses, everything from shelves and sideboards shattered across the floor in a mosaic of glass, ceramic, and plastic.

The curtains hung in tatters, like a debutante’s ruined gown. The kitchen? Ketchup bled into pickled tomatoes and jam, while neat mounds of salt, sugar, and pepper dotted the chaos. Forks and spoons lay in scattered heaps. The curtains there had been torn clean off their rods, draping the wreckage. And there, atop the bare dining table—

Brisk sat, immensely pleased. Before him lay a fly. An enormous one, like a bomber plane. He gazed at his human with the smug expression of a conqueror, purring low in his throat.

Any moment now… any moment, praise would come. All day, without rest, he’d dashed about, chasing that insolent insect. Exhausted, but victorious! Now, he would present his prize and claim his reward. The very thought made his paws knead the air.

The man righted a chair and sank into it. Where to even begin? Clean? Supper? A scolding? But he didn’t ponder long—

A knock at the door.

He rose, crossed the hall, and opened it. His shock deepened.

Three policemen stood there, backed by a dozen neighbors. Their hands hovered near their holsters.

“We’ve had calls,” the first officer began.
“Many calls,” added the second. “Reports of… disturbances. Furniture crashing, plates breaking. Screaming. Howling. Mind if we take a look?” His tone hardened. “And for safety—hands up, please. Step back.”

The neighbors stared, half-fearful, half-disapproving.

“Ah,” the man sighed. “Right. Come in.” He retreated, hands clasped behind his head.

The officers surveyed the wreckage, their boots crunching over debris. They moved room to room, searching.

“What exactly are you looking for?” the man asked.

“A body,” replied one. “And an explanation.”

“Oh! A body. Right this way.”

The officers tensed, fingers twitching toward their weapons. The man crept along the wall, then threw open the kitchen door with a flourish.

“Here you are!”

They shoved past him—only to freeze.

On the table, basking in attention, sat Brisk. The fly lay before him.

Silence. Then—

The first officer snorted. Then the others erupted, laughter shaking their shoulders. Brisk preened. See? Everyone was delighted. Clearly, his efforts were appreciated.

They spent half an hour posing for photos—Brisk cradled in their arms, the fly displayed like a trophy against the backdrop of destruction. Even the neighbors chuckled. But no one was prouder than the cat.

***

After they left, the man slumped onto a chair.

“I’ll help,” a voice said.

He turned. The woman from the ground floor stood there.

“Day off today,” she said with a smile. “You’ll be at it till midnight alone. Together, we’ll manage quicker.”

He flushed. “I couldn’t possibly impose—”

“Nonsense.” She waved a hand. “Nothing else to do. Just me and my mum—her flat’s nearby.” She glanced at Brisk, who was batting the fly across the table. “You’ll scold him, won’t you?”

The man sighed, stood, and scooped Brisk up.

“You dreadful little beast,” he murmured. “This is unacceptable. Understand?”

Brisk kneaded the air—then stretched up and licked his cheek. The man kissed his nose.

“There. Lesson learned. Never again.”

He set the cat down. Brisk arched his back and wound around the woman’s ankles, making her laugh.

“That’s scolding?” She smirked. “Why haven’t I noticed you before?”

“Dunno.” He shrugged. “Maybe I was miserable before. Now, with Brisk—well.” He gestured at the devastation. “Happiness leaves marks.”

She called a handyman. By morning, tight mesh covered every window. Brisk could lounge on the sill, watching birds and fat flies safely outside.

They spent the day clearing the mess—broken dishes bagged, floors scrubbed, ruined curtains tossed. Then they shopped for replacements. By evening, they returned with snacks, a cake, and—naturally—champagne. A housewarming, of sorts. For an old flat. With a new guest.

They talked late into the night, Brisk purring on the woman’s lap, already plotting his next… contribution.

***

In the end? All turned out splendidly. Brisk, of course, continues to “help”—his father and his new mother, who entered their lives purely because of him.

And now, together, they tidy up his thoughtful chaos.

What else did you expect?

Really—what else?