The man walked into his house and gasped…

Six months ago, he’d been given a tiny kitten named Whiskers. His niece, who occasionally visited with her family, had found the little thing on the street. “You live alone,” she’d said, handing him the fluffball. “Still haven’t found yourself a partner. And with your stressful job—a bus driver—you need someone to come home to. Cats bring comfort, you know. Lovely creatures.”

Oh, how he’d believed her! And why not? He’d imagined coming home after a long shift, frazzled by passengers and other drivers refusing to yield, only to find Whiskers curled up on the sofa, purring, mewing, climbing onto his lap for a cuddle.

Well. Anyone with half a brain—ladies and gentlemen—could’ve told him he was being naive. Whiskers did *not* live up to expectations. The sweet, obedient kitten had morphed into a hyperactive menace. Cuddles? No thank you. Chaos? Absolutely.

In his inexperience, the man had bought a fly swatter—a trusty weapon against those tiny, darting pests or the gigantic “horseflies” (why *horse* flies, he never understood). And Whiskers? Oh, he’d watched his human wield that swatter with great interest. Taking notes, perhaps. Filing away the technique. Until one day, he decided to impress his owner. And impress him he did.

Now, back to where we started.

***

The man stepped inside and froze. Nothing. Nothing at all remained intact in his flat. The wreckage suggested a full-blown gang war—with baseball bats. Chairs overturned. Vases, glasses, anything that had once stood on tables, windowsills, or shelves now lay in shattered pieces across the floor.

The curtains hung in tattered strips, as if mimicking some punk rocker’s skirt. The kitchen? A masterpiece. Ketchup oozed into pickles and jam. Neat little piles of salt, sugar, and pepper decorated the countertops. Forks and spoons lay scattered like casualties of war. The kitchen curtains had been torn down, rod and all, adding to the glorious mess. And there, perched on the now-bare dining table—

Whiskers. Looking mightily pleased with himself. In front of him sat a fly. A beast of a thing, the size of a small drone. The cat gazed at his human with the triumphant eyes of a champion, purring like a tiny motorboat.

*Any minute now*, he thought. *Any minute, he’ll praise me*. He’d spent the entire day—exhausted, paws aching—chasing that cheeky insect. But he’d *caught* it. And now, surely, his reward was coming. The mere thought made his little toes wiggle with excitement.

The man righted a chair and sank into it. Where to even begin? Cleaning? Dinner? Scolding the cat? He didn’t get long to ponder—because the doorbell rang. He trudged to the entryway and opened the door. His shock doubled.

Three police officers stood in the hall, backed by a crowd of at least ten neighbours. Their hands hovered near their holsters.

“We’ve had… *multiple* calls,” said the first officer.

“Very concerned calls,” added the second. “Reports of furniture crashing, plates breaking, and”—he squinted at his notepad—“*unholy screeching*. We’d like to inspect the premises. For everyone’s safety, could you place your hands on your head and step into the corner?”

The neighbours glared at him, a mix of fear and judgment in their eyes.

“Ah. *Right*,” the man said. He raised his hands. “By all means, come in.”

The officers moved through the flat, surveying the destruction with deepening suspicion.

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

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

“A body! Oh, I can absolutely show you a body,” the man agreed.

The officers stiffened, hands twitching toward their weapons. Slowly, cautiously, the man edged along the wall toward the kitchen. He flung the door open with a grand flourish.

“Ta-da!”

The officers shoved past him—only to freeze.

There, on the table, sat the *body*. Smug. Smiling. Loving the attention. And in front of it? The fly.

For several seconds, silence reigned. Then understanding dawned on their faces. The first officer snorted. Then the second. Then they were all dissolving into laughter. Whiskers watched, triumphant. *See?* his expression said. *Everyone’s happy. That means I did well.*

The police spent the next half hour taking selfies with Whiskers and the fly, posing amid the wreckage like it was a tourist attraction. The neighbours, now sheepish, shuffled off.

***

Once they were gone, the man slumped back onto his chair.

“Need a hand?”

He turned. A woman from the ground floor stood in his doorway.

“Day off today,” she said with a smile. “You’ll be here all night otherwise.”

“I—I wouldn’t want to trouble you,” he stammered.

“Nonsense. Nothing better to do.” Her smile softened. “Just me and my mum—she lives nearby. So.” She nodded at Whiskers, now batting the fat fly across the table. “You going to punish this little troublemaker?”

The man sighed. “Well, I suppose I should.” He scooped Whiskers into his arms. “You *rotten* little creature. This is *not* how we behave, understand? No. Bad cat.”

Whiskers kneaded the air. *Such scolding!* So gentle. So loving. Unable to resist, he stretched up and licked the man’s cheek. The man kissed his nose.

“There. Lesson learned. No more of *this*.” He set Whiskers down. The cat arched his tail and wound around the woman’s legs.

She laughed. “That’s the *softest* telling-off I’ve ever seen. How’ve I never noticed you before?”

The man shrugged. “Maybe because I was miserable. Now?” He gestured at the wreckage. “Can’t stop smiling.”

The next day, she called a handyman to fit fine mesh screens on all the windows—so Whiskers could safely watch birds (and plump, juicy flies) from the sill.

Together, they cleaned. Tossed the broken dishes. Scrubbed the floors. Tore down the ruined curtains. Then they went shopping—for new ones.

By evening, they were back. The man had bought snacks. A fancy cake. A bottle of champagne. You know—*new home* celebrations. Even if it was the same old flat. Just… with her in it now.

They sat at the kitchen table, talking, laughing. Whiskers lounged on the woman’s lap, plotting his *next* grand gesture.

***

In the end, everything turned out brilliantly. Whiskers, of course, remains tirelessly helpful. Dad and his new *mum*—who only came into their lives because she took one look at him and thought, *Oh, you scoundrel, you’re mine*—now clean up his messes *together*.

And really. What else did you expect?

Couldn’t have happened any other way.