In our apartment building, there was always someone with something to say.
For me, that person was Greg. The self-proclaimed dog lover who never missed a chance to insult my cat, Ginger.
“She’s useless,” he’d say with a sneer. “Just sits there all day. Typical cat.”
I ignored him, as best I could. Ginger didn’t need to prove anything to anyone.
Cat Hater Next Door
Greg moved into the building about a month after I did, and it didn’t take long to figure out what kind of neighbor he was.
He had a voice that carried—always talking loudly into his Bluetooth—and he loved to complain about everything, from the creaky elevator to the “overpriced” laundry machines.
But what really set him off was Ginger.
Ginger was my orange tabby, all soft fur and sleepy eyes, with a lazy streak that only made her more lovable.
She was famous in the building for sitting on the windowsill or sunning herself on the fire escape, her tail flicking lazily at passing pigeons. The kids loved her, Mrs. Ortega from the second floor adored her, and even the delivery drivers would wave to her when they passed by.
Greg, however, wasn’t a fan.
“That yours?” he asked me one day, gesturing toward Ginger with his chin as I carried a bag of groceries inside.
“Yeah, that’s Ginger,” I said, smiling.
He snorted. “Figures. Looks like all she does is sit there. Cats are so… useless.”
I blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness of it. “Well, I think she’s great,” I said, trying to keep my voice light.
He shrugged. “Dogs are better. At least they do something.”
That was just the start.
Over the next few weeks, Greg made his disdain for Ginger—and cats in general—abundantly clear. Anytime we crossed paths, there was a comment:
“When are you going to get a real pet?”
“Must be nice having a freeloading roommate.”
“Bet she’s never even caught a mouse.”
It was like he couldn’t help himself. I wanted to snap back, but what was the point?
People like Greg didn’t change their minds.
Still, his words lingered, and every time I walked back into my apartment, I’d find Ginger exactly where I’d left her. Curled up on the windowsill or stretched out on the couch, purring softly.
She’d look up at me with her big green eyes, as if to say, Ignore him. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.
And she was right. Ginger didn’t need to prove anything to anyone.
Lazy and Useless?
Greg’s comments didn’t stop, and they didn’t get any kinder.
One afternoon, as I was coming back from a walk, Greg spotted me in the hallway and grinned.
“How’s your little couch potato doing? Still earning her keep by sitting in the same spot all day?”
I forced a smile. “She’s doing great, thanks for asking.”
He snorted. “You should get a dog. At least they contribute to the household.”
I rolled my eyes and kept walking. Ginger didn’t need to contribute. She was my companion, my little oasis of calm in a hectic world.
Most of the other neighbors understood that.
Mrs. Ortega would bring Ginger scraps of chicken whenever she stopped by. The kids in the building waved at her through the window, delighted when she flicked her tail in acknowledgment.
Even the delivery drivers smiled when they saw her perched on the fire escape, basking in the sun.
But Greg? Greg loved to remind everyone how much he hated cats.
“They’re just decorations,” he’d mutter loudly, earning disapproving looks from Mrs. Ortega and anyone else within earshot.
That night, Ginger seemed restless. She paced back and forth near the window, her ears twitching at every little sound.
I followed her gaze to the fire escape, but I didn’t see anything unusual. Just the faint outline of the tree outside swaying in the breeze.
“You okay, girl?” I asked, scratching her head. She didn’t respond, her attention locked on whatever she thought she saw outside.
I shrugged it off, assuming it was just a bird or a passing squirrel.
The next day, I found out I was half right.
A Squirrel Problem
The chaos started early the next morning.
I was pouring my first cup of coffee when I heard it. Loud thuds and the sharp crash of something shattering from Greg’s apartment upstairs.
At first, I thought it was just another one of his loud phone calls where he stomped around like the floor had personally offended him.
But then came the unmistakable sound of something heavy hitting the ground, followed by a string of frustrated curses.
“Get out of here! No—stop! ARGH!”
I froze, coffee mug halfway to my lips, and tilted my head toward the ceiling. What in the world was going on?
A few more bangs, another crash, and then Greg’s voice—high-pitched and panicked—bellowed, “STUPID THING! GET OUT!”
I didn’t want to laugh, but a grin tugged at the corners of my mouth anyway. Whatever was happening up there, it sounded like Greg was losing.
The racket continued, so I walked to my window and leaned out slightly, peering at the fire escape that connected our apartments.
That’s when I spotted it. A squirrel, its bushy tail twitching like mad as it darted across the fire escape railing, leaping toward Greg’s open kitchen window.
I covered my mouth to muffle my laugh.
Apparently, Mr. “Dogs are better” had left his window open near the tree outside, and a bold little squirrel had decided to make itself at home.
From the sounds of it, the squirrel wasn’t exactly a quiet guest.
The crashing upstairs grew louder, and I heard what sounded like a broom handle hitting the walls. I pictured Greg flailing around with a broom, trying to shoo the squirrel out while it darted around, chewing on wires or knocking over dishes.
“Oh, this is too good,” I muttered to myself, grinning.
Ginger, meanwhile, had stationed herself at the window, her green eyes locked on the commotion above us. Her ears twitched at every sound, and her tail flicked with the kind of focus I hadn’t seen since the last time she spotted a pigeon on the fire escape.
Suddenly, the squirrel reappeared, scampering back onto the fire escape. It paused briefly, its tiny chest heaving as it glanced around, probably trying to figure out its next move.
And that’s when Ginger sprang into action.
Before I could stop her, she leapt onto the windowsill and out onto the fire escape with surprising speed for a cat who normally moved only to switch sunbeams.
“Ginger!” I called, rushing to the window. But she was already locked onto her target, her entire body low and tense as she crept toward the squirrel.
The squirrel froze for a split second, clearly realizing it had made a tactical error. Then it bolted back toward Greg’s open window, and Ginger took off after it.
What happened next felt like something out of a cartoon.
The squirrel, desperate to escape, flew through Greg’s window like a rocket. I heard a loud yelp—definitely Greg this time—and then the unmistakable sound of pots and pans clattering to the floor.
Moments later, the squirrel shot back out of Greg’s window and darted down the fire escape, disappearing into the tree below.
Ginger, satisfied that the intruder was gone, trotted back onto my windowsill and sauntered inside like she’d just done something ordinary.
Meanwhile, upstairs, there was silence.
I waited, trying to hold back my laughter, until I heard Greg’s voice groan through the ceiling: “Stupid squirrel… stupid cat…”
I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing.
Greg’s Change of Heart
By the time I saw Greg later that day, he looked like he’d been through a war.
His hair was a mess, there was a smudge of something gray on his shirt, and his expression was a mix of exhaustion and defeat.
I was walking back from the mailbox when he stepped out of his apartment, broom in hand, muttering under his breath. When he saw me, he froze, his eyes darting to the broom, then back to me.
“What’s with the broom?” I asked innocently, biting back a grin.
He glared at me for a second, then sighed, his shoulders slumping.
“Your cat… uh… helped me earlier,” he mumbled, the words coming out like they physically hurt him.
I raised an eyebrow. “Oh? I thought you said she was useless.”
Greg winced, avoiding eye contact.
“Yeah, well… turns out she’s not. That squirrel would’ve wrecked my place if she hadn’t chased it off.” He paused, then added reluctantly, “Thanks. I guess.”
“Don’t thank me,” I said with a shrug. “Thank Ginger. She’s the one who saved the day.”
Greg muttered something under his breath and walked away, broom dragging behind him.
News of the “squirrel incident” spread quickly through the building, thanks to Mrs. Ortega and her impeccable gossip network.
By the next morning, everyone knew about how Greg’s “useless” cat-hating attitude had backfired spectacularly.
“Well, I guess cats do something after all,” one neighbor said, loudly enough for Greg to hear as he shuffled past.
“They’re smart animals, you know,” Mrs. Ortega added with a smirk. “And clearly braver than some people.”
Greg didn’t respond. He avoided eye contact with me for the next few days, though I did catch him glancing at Ginger once or twice when she sat on the fire escape, her tail flicking leisurely.
One afternoon, as I sipped tea by the window, I saw him pause outside and look up at her.
“Hey, uh… good job,” he said awkwardly, almost under his breath, before walking away.
Ginger, of course, ignored him completely.
I scratched behind her ears, laughing softly. “Lazy and useless, huh? If only they knew.”
She purred in response, curling up in the sunlight, her work for the day officially done.