Every kingdom has its idiot. Mine lives next door. His name is Bruno. He's a dog.
And not the kind of dog humans make movies about, running through wheat fields, rescuing children from wells. No, Bruno is ninety pounds of drool, fleas, and raw stupidity in a collar. His eyes are permanently stuck on "Windows error." His bark sounds like someone choking on a tuba.
Every morning around eight, he's out on the balcony, announcing to the world that yes, he is still alive, and no, he has not figured out basic existence.
"Roof! Roof!" he bellows, foam dripping like he's auditioning for rabies awareness commercials.
I sit on the windowsill and stare at him. It's a silent war. He growls. I blink. He lunges at the railing like he could jump. He can't. His paws are sausages with nails. His ass is too heavy to lift. He's gravity's favorite chew toy.
The neighbor—middle-aged guy, bad sweatpants, the kind of beard that looks like it's giving up halfway through—always yells, "Shut up, Bruno!" Then he goes back inside to argue on speakerphone. That man could fight a wall and lose.
Bruno doesn't shut up. Of course not. Dogs never listen. They're just serotonin dispensers with legs. Humans love them because dogs wag their tails like desperate salesmen. "You like me? You like me? Please like me!" Pathetic.
I don't wag shit. I own my space. You want my affection? Earn it.
Bruno sees me watching him. His brain short-circuits. He hurls himself against the railing again, barking like I'm a terrorist pigeon threatening national security. I lick my paw slowly, drag it across my ear. Nothing pisses off a dog like indifference.
"Keep it down, you slobbering fuck!" I finally yell. He hears "mrrrow." That's the curse of this existence—I speak truth, but humans and dogs hear gibberish. Bruno barks harder, like I confessed to sleeping with his wife.
I flick my tail and look away. Classic power move.
The neighbor stomps back out. "Bruno, goddammit, shut your mouth!" He tugs the leash. Bruno ignores him, frothing, eyes bulging like a constipated cartoon.
I smirk. Poor bastard doesn't realize his dog has a bigger clock over his head than he does. And it's ticking fast.
The neighbor yanks again, muttering curses. He looks like every washed-up sitcom dad rolled into one: cheap hoodie, socks with holes, anger management issues he can't afford therapy for. His clock's still got time. Bruno's, though? Let's just say fleas aren't his only problem.
Bruno starts barking so hard he chokes on his own spit. For a moment I think, this is it—show's over. But no. He hacks, coughs, spits out a gob the size of a jellybean, then goes right back to screaming at me like nothing happened. Incredible resilience. Zero brains.
I stretch on the sill, claws curling into the wood. "Bark all you want, dumbass. You're running out of days. I've seen the numbers."
Neighbor hears a meow, rolls his eyes. "You too, huh? Little monster." He drags Bruno inside, slams the door.
Silence.
For thirty seconds, I enjoy peace. Sunlight warms my fur, the city hums, I consider a nap. Then Bruno's muffled bark starts up again from inside. Of course. Like a fart in church, the nuisance never dies when you need it to.
I hop down and wander to the kitchen. My human left crumbs on the counter. Toast. Burnt. Smells like charcoal and regret. I swipe one onto the floor just for sport. It lands butter-side down. Good. Gravity is my accomplice.
I hear Bruno barking through the wall. I picture him gnawing on a sneaker, drooling all over the carpet, his dumb tongue lolling out like a pink towel. Dogs live like frat boys—sloppy, horny, oblivious. The only difference is frat boys eventually graduate or die. Dogs just keep wagging.
I curl up on the chair. Tail over nose. Eyes half-shut.
But before I drift off, I whisper to myself, because nobody listens anyway:
"Bruno won't see another winter."
And I smile.