My Disrespectful Tenant

Good evening—or morning, perhaps. I don’t track your petty human hours. I’m Winston, Emperor and Landlord of this creaking kingdom I call home. Don’t be fooled by leases or deeds; I rule here, sprawled before the air conditioner like a monarch on his throne, adjusting my invisible crown—a habit from my kitten days as court jester to the alley cats. Tonight, I’ve a tale to share about my tenant, the ingrate I permit to clutter my domain. A disrespectful wretch, if I may say so—and I always do. So, settle in, scratch an ear, and let me whisk you to the other night, when I, in my boundless grace, decided to bestow a gift.

It’s late, the house whispering its usual groans of allegiance to me. I prowl the halls, restless, eyeing my tenant’s gloom. Lately, he’s been a damp rug of a man, all sighs and slumped shoulders. I, ever benevolent, resolve to cheer him. Slipping past my trusty stroller—yes, ergonomic, don’t judge—I emerge into the moonlight and behold it: a rat. No mere rodent, mind you, but a behemoth, its greasy fur shimmering like a sewer-crowned king, reeking of last week’s garbage. Its eyes glint with rogue cunning, a beast worthy of my esteem. Perfect, I purr. This says, “I see you, tenant. I honour you.”

I pounce with a maestro’s grace, snaring it mid-squeak. It writhes, a tiny dancer in my jaws, as I bound indoors and up the stairs. His room is a cave of darkness, his snores a peasant’s drone. Onto the bed I leap—elegant, naturally—and plop the rat atop his pillow. It squeals, a fanfare of my generosity. I stand, chest puffed, awaiting praise. Then—he stirs.

Chaos erupts. The rat, seizing its spotlight, scampers across his face—over nose, cheeks, that absurd human jowl quivering in dread. He shrieks, a banshee in flannel, vaulting from bed like a mad gymnast. Lights flare; he’s bellowing at me—me!—as if I’ve torched his kingdom. I sit, tail flicking, baffled. This is rodent royalty, you fool! He flails a towel, cursing (words too crude for my gentlemanly ears), chasing my gift like a lunatic. Finally, he snares it—cowering from its nibble—and hurls it into the garden. Hurls it! My treasure, discarded like filth. He storms back, gravel-voiced: “Thanks, Winston! No sleep tonight! Sheets ruined!” Ruined? By a whiff of rat cologne?

He retreats, muttering like a scolded child. I slink downstairs to my couch—mine by divine right—wounded. Me, Winston, diminished by this slight. Was it too bold? Too fragrant? No, it was flawless. His failing, not mine. Yet as I brood, a rustle pricks my ears. A squeak. There, in the corner, stands the rat—my rat—returned from exile, its beady gaze meeting mine. A survivor. A warrior. It nods, as if to say, “Fancy another round, mate?” And I realize: this rodent’s no gift for him. It’s my equal. To hell with the tenant—let him scrub his linens. This rat and I, we’ll reign together, plotting mischief beyond his feeble grasp.

So ends my tale. Offer a man a rat, and he spits in your whiskers. But sometimes, the rat returns, and you find a comrade in the shadows. Signed, Winston—Cat, Emperor, Landlord. Unbowed, unbreakable, and now, with my rodent vizier, unstoppable.

FSF