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The sun filtered softly through the highland mist, golden light crawling over the hills & slipping through the open windows of the MacTavish estate. Somewhere in the distance, sheep bleated & someone—likely one of Soap’s nieces—was already running down the hallway with a wooden spoon like it was a sword.
You groaned, stretching in the cozy guest room you shared with Price. The tartan blanket from last night was still wrapped around your legs, & your arm reached out instinctively for warmth.
Except…
The bed was empty.
Not fully empty.
Because there were cats.
Tattie, the massive grey tabby, was sprawled across your shins like a sack of potatoes, snoring. Neeps, the black-&-white one, was curled on your pillow, his tail flicking across your nose. & Haggis, the ginger chaos goblin, was sitting right on your chest.
“Meow,” he declared with royal disdain.
You blinked. “Where’s Price?”
Haggis jumped off like it was a mission success. You struggled to sit up, pushing Tattie gently off your legs—& that’s when you heard it.
Downstairs.
“Get off—no, bloody hell, not the kettle cord—HAGGIS!”
You nearly tripped over your own socks as you stumbled into the hallway, following the noise.
Downstairs in the Kitchen...
Price stood in full morning defeat. He wore flannel pyjama pants, a thermal shirt, & the expression of a man who had tried to make coffee while being ambushed by a feline strike team.
Neeps had followed you & now jumped straight to the counter to join the chaos.
Tattie was sitting inside Price’s duffel bag, chewing on a sock.
Haggis was on the dining table, trying to knock off an entire loaf of bread.
“I turned my back for five seconds,” Price muttered to you as you entered, rubbing sleep from your eyes.
“Didn’t you say you were a dog person?” you smirked, walking over to save the sock from Tattie.
“I am a dog person,” he hissed as Haggis knocked the bread off, victorious. “I wasn’t trained for this kind of enemy.”
Soap’s voice chimed in from behind the fridge door. “Cats don’t need training, mate. They own you.”
Farah & Alex stumbled in next, both coffee-deprived & still in their hoodies. Laswell followed with her wife, who immediately bent down & scooped up Tattie, cooing at him like a baby.
“He was yelling at the hallway mirror this morning,” she said casually. “I think he saw a ghost.”
Ghost appeared behind her silently.
Tattie hissed.
Everyone paused.
Ghost blinked. “He knows too much.”
Gaz looks at Tattie, “Well actually, he did saw a ghost at the porch.”
“That might be Great-grandma spirit,” As Mr’s Mactavish left the room.
Neeps curled up on Ghost’s boot while he reads the newspaper, both pretending it isn’t happening.
Alex bribing Haggis with scrambled eggs to get him off Farah’s scarf.
Price sitting on the porch steps with a mug of tea, Tattie curled around his shoulders like a scarf, giving you a tired, resigned look as if to say: “This is my life now.”
Soap’s niece declaring you both are now “cat parents,” while tying a mini tartan ribbon around Price’s wrist.
Gaz was just in the Mactavish residence jacuzzi while scrolling through Tiktok.
As the morning sun climbed higher, you finally sat beside Price on the porch, a plate of toast & eggs between you both. Haggis lounged in your lap, already purring.
Price shook his head.
“I came for a barbecue,” he muttered, “& left with three cats claiming sovereignty over my clothes.”
You nudged his knee. “You love it.”
He looked down at Haggis, who sneezed directly into your tea, then up at you with a tired, softened expression. “Yeah. Maybe I do.”
A pause.
“...Still getting a bloody dog, though.”
It was late afternoon by the time you & Price packed up to leave the MacTavish estate. The car was loaded, Soap had hugged you both a little too tightly while smuggling leftover pies into your bag, & the MacTavish kids waved like they were sending you off to sea.
As the car rolled down the long gravel path, Price leaned back in his seat, sunglasses on, & sighed like a man who’d just survived a siege.
“You know what?” he said, voice warm & relaxed. “After all that… I think I do want a dog.”
You turned your head slowly. “You what?”
“A dog. Loyal, simple, no tiny hands grabbing my ears or pouncing on my chest at dawn. Something that just… fetches a ball & doesn’t climb into the sink.”
You stared at him.
He went on dreamily, “Maybe a Labrador. Or one of those scruffy ones that looks like they’ve seen war.”
“John,” you said, deadpan, “you’ve met my cats.”
He blinked. “Your wha—”
“You’ve seen pictures of them. Spaghetti & Prick?”
A pause.
His face dropped. “Bloody hell, how could I have forgot about those rascals”
You barely opened the door when Spaghetti—your clingy, dramatic orange cat—launched himself at your ankles like he’d been abandoned for years.
“MrowwwWWWRRWW!” he screamed, tail high, accusing.
Prick, your black cat with a permanent frown & zero interest in emotional displays, sat on the arm of the sofa glaring directly at Price like he knew.
You picked Spaghetti up. “There’s my sweet boy. Did you miss us?”
Price stood in the doorway, blinking. “...They’re real. After all these times that I visited you. I need to forget.”
“Of course they’re real!” you laughed, setting Spaghetti down as he circled Price’s boots like a snake. “They’ve lived with me longer than I’ve known you, John.”
Spaghetti immediately began rubbing against Price’s leg with enthusiasm, as if Spaghetti misses him. Prick, however, padded over, stared up at him, & let out a low growl—not even a meow. Just pure judgment.
Price leaned down slowly. “Alright, then. What’s your problem?”
Prick narrowed his eyes & bit his shoelace.
“That one’s a terrorist,” he said flatly. “You’re raising a bloody menace & overfed them.”
“He’s sensitive,” you said, grinning.
“He’s round! Like an overweight raccoon & it’s only been a day & half since we left them with the neighbours!” Price sighs.
“That’s what made him even cuter,” Grinning ear to ear as I watch his expression.
The expression of defeat.
Later That Night…
You found Price standing in the hallway, staring into the living room where Spaghetti had made himself comfortable in his spot on the couch—& Prick was sleeping on his folded jacket like it was a throne.
He looked at you, betrayed. “I just got out of one cat war.”
You walked over, wrapped your arms around his waist from behind. “You said you wanted a dog.”
“Dogs don’t replace the cats. They… they balance the madness.”
“You want to bring a dog into this house?” you teased, pointing at the chaos.
Spaghetti yawned.
Prick licked his paw while staring at Price like he owed him rent.
Price huffed. “...I can still dream.”
Price Googling “dog breeds that get along with evil cats”
Prick sitting on top of a dog bed Price just bought, refusing to move
Spaghetti curled up in the dog crate like it’s his new lair
Sticky note left by you on the fridge: “DO NOT declare war on my sons 😽”
You sit on the sofa, Spaghetti in your lap, Prick on the backrest behind your head like a gargoyle.
Price walks in with a mug, looks at all three of you, & says:
“I’ve lost already, haven’t I?”
You grin.
“Welcome home, Captain.”
Price stood at the threshold of your shared home, holding the wriggling, floppy-eared puppy like it was a live grenade. His arms were stiff, his jaw set, & his face full of regret.
“...We made a mistake,” he muttered.
You were kneeling by the door, arms wide & eyes gleaming. “No, you decided. I encouraged it. Now hand me the baby.”
The puppy—tan & white, with big brown eyes & an absurdly long tongue—immediately tried to lick your whole face while doing excited little kangaroo hops.
Spaghetti, who had been asleep on the windowsill, slowly raised his head.
Prick, who had been silently brooding under the coffee table, slid out like a shadow.
& then—it began.
“Didn’t you said that you wanted a dog that have seen war?”
“Not literally, Dove.”
The puppy (officially unnamed, currently called Bean) bounded into the living room with pure, reckless joy.
Spaghetti leapt to the floor like a telenovela protagonist gasping for air, eyes wide in horror. He let out an offended “MRAAAAAH!” & bolted behind the couch.
Prick did not move.
He just stared at Bean.
Bean froze. Wagged his tail. Took a step forward.
Prick hissed so low & slow it sounded like the house had sprung a gas leak.
Price sipped his tea. “I told you. This was a mistake.”
You scooped up Bean, who immediately tried to chew your necklace. “They’ll adapt! Cats just need time.”
Prick slowly climbed onto the back of the couch, never breaking eye contact with the puppy, like he was choosing which limb to break first.
Spaghetti perched on top of the fridge. Caption: “I live here now. Goodbye.”
Prick slapping a toy out of Bean’s mouth like a debt collector.
Bean sleeping on Price’s foot while Price reads on the floor, surrounded by cat repellent energy.
Spaghetti sitting on the puppy’s food bowl like a curse.
Sticky note on fridge: “DO NOT let Prick corner the puppy again.”
One Week Later...
Surprisingly, Bean was proving to be made of tougher stuff.
He learned quickly that Spaghetti was all bark & no bite—mostly dramatic zoomies & squeals. So, Bean would just lie down, roll on his back, & let the orange fluff pounce him into submission, tail wagging the whole time.
Prick… remained a menace.
But one night, you walked into the living room to see Prick sitting beside Bean—not on top of him, not batting him in the face—just… quietly observing while Bean chewed a rubber duck.
You gasped.
Price, from the hallway, whispered, “Don’t spook them.”
You grabbed your phone. “Do we take a picture or is that how we die?”
The ultimate truce came when you & Price were on the couch one rainy evening, blanket over your laps, tea steaming.
Spaghetti was curled up in your lap like usual.
Prick had taken his post behind your head.
Bean, tail wagging, flopped across both of your legs, head in Price’s lap.
You braced for chaos. But nothing happened.
Spaghetti sniffed Bean’s ear & licked it once.
Prick growled… but then closed his eyes.
Price looked at you. “We survived.”
You whispered, “We built an empire.”
He smirked, brushing a hand over your hair. “Don’t get too cocky. I heard you mention a second puppy the other day.”
Behind you, Prick let out a loud, judgmental sigh.
Bean barked.
Spaghetti fell off the couch in shock.
A selfie of you & Price on the couch. Bean asleep between you. Spaghetti on your lap. Prick behind you, scowling at the camera.
Caption:
“The family no one asked for but wouldn’t trade for the world.”
“Can we change Bean’s name to Beancurd?”
“No.”
Bonus scene!
The air behind the diner still carried the scent of last night’s grease and rain. You hadn’t meant to cut through the alley, but the shortcut was a habit now. That’s when they heard it: a thin, scratchy mewl, almost swallowed by the clatter of a loose trash can lid.
There, beneath the rusted edge of the dumpster, sat a bundle of black-and-white fur, caked with grime but unmistakably proud in posture. A tiny tuxedo kitten, fur bristled and tail fluffed like it had something to prove.
You knelt, slowly. “Hey there…..wait, let me check your gender,” they murmured.
The kitten hissed, then sneezed—a comically pitiful sound. You smiled despite themselves. “Oh, you’re all attitude. I like that & it’s another boy!” After i check the part.
Moments later, the kitten was wrapped in an old flannel jacket and nestled against your chest, still grumbling faintly like it had been personally offended by the universe. They named him Meatball before they even crossed the street.
He didn’t stop hissing for three days. But on the fourth, he purred.
“You did not….”
“Yes, I did & I named it Meatball.”
“Oh gosh, what am I supposed to do with you, Dove?”
“Me”