“Take your cat and go—our Johnny matters more!” That’s what my sister said when she turned up unannounced and tried to kick my pet out.
*”Just a couple of nights, don’t stress. We’ll sort our own cab—no need to pick us up.”* That’s what she told me over the phone on a Friday evening, just as I was winding down after a long week.
I froze. My sister. Rebecca. With her kid. No invite. No warning. Just *”We’re coming.”* No *”Is this okay?”* or *”Will we be in the way?”* And she *knew* I hated surprise guests—especially the sort who think they can start making rules in *my* house.
I live in Bristol. Two-bed flat, quiet, cosy, right in the city centre. Best of all, it’s home to my cat, Whiskers. Seven years we’ve had together. He’s my comfort, my alarm clock, my little shadow. This place isn’t home without him. So when Rebecca and her son barged in, the *first* thing she did was hiss at him—*”Shoo! Get lost!”*
Whiskers, used to ruling the place, froze. Back arched, ears flat. Then her five-year-old, Johnny, chucked a shoe at him. Whiskers bolted under the bed. And Rebecca? She just smirked, like it was some big joke.
*”Johnny, no! He’s a living creature. This is *his* home too—you don’t hurt him,”* I said, keeping my voice steady even though my hands were shaking.
She rolled her eyes. *”You should’ve handed him off to someone. Johnny’s allergic to fur—he’ll be sneezing his head off. Maybe a neighbour could take him? Or just shove him outside for a bit—let him have a proper cat’s life.”*
I could feel my blood boiling, but I kept calm. *”Rebecca, Whiskers isn’t a *thing*. He’s never been outside. And I’m not dumping him on anyone. If Johnny’s allergic, you should’ve *said*. I’d have taken Whiskers to Mum’s or sorted something. But this? Not my fault.”*
*”So you’re *risking* my son’s health over a *cat*?!”* she snapped. *”Fix it!”*
*”I can give you a hotel number. Help you rent a flat for a few days. *You* said it wouldn’t be long.”*
*”Or maybe *you* stick the cat in a rental and treat *us* properly? We’re family, and you’re throwing us out!”* Without waiting, she yanked open my fridge and started rummaging.
I sat down, looked her dead in the eye, and said quietly, *”No. If you’re unhappy, *leave*. I respect guests—but I respect myself, too. I’ll call Sophie—she’s an estate agent. She’ll find you a place tonight if you want.”*
*”You’re *serious*?! Over some scraggy *cat*? We’re supposed to crawl around picking up his fur now?”*
I walked off. Ten minutes later, a cab pulled up. No goodbye. No apology. And Johnny? Never sneezed once.
When they’d gone, Whiskers crept out from under the bed, stretched, then hopped onto my lap. Purring, rubbing against me—and yeah, I cried. Relief, hurt, the lot. That my own sister saw him as nothing but a nuisance.
Later, I rang Mum. Told her everything. She just sighed. *”You know Johnny isn’t allergic, right? Rebecca just wanted to play boss. Put you in your place. Bet things aren’t great back in Manchester—she came to take it out on you.”*
I had no reply. But one thing’s clear: if someone doesn’t respect your home—or who lives in it, human *or* pet—they don’t get to stay. Not even for an hour. Even if they’re family.