The Case of the Disappearing Fish: A Tale of Kindness and Patience

This morning, after a brisk run with Archie, I decided to treat him to a special breakfast. His bowl was perfectly set: a scoop of kibble, a splash of milk, and three tiny anchovy fish placed just right—because presentation matters, especially when you’ve got a good boy like Archie.

I figured I’d give him a little break before his meal, so I headed upstairs to get ready. When I came back down, Archie was sitting there—alert, tail wagging, eyes glued to the bowl. But something was…off.

Weren’t there three fish? I blinked. Only two now.

Seconds later, I turned around to grab my tea, and when I looked again—only one fish left.

Archie let out a soft whine. Not the dramatic kind, just a gentle nudge. Then came the lightest bark, like he was trying to alert the authorities, but politely.

I looked around. No sign of a break-in. Except for one suspect: Mori, our cat.

Mori was perched on the windowsill, licking his lips, tail swishing smugly—like a furry little fish bandit.

Despite it all, Archie didn’t growl, didn’t chase, didn’t complain. He just sat there, patiently, as if to say, “It’s okay. I can wait. I trust you.”

And that hit me.

Sometimes in life, we do everything right—we show up, wait patiently, play by the rules—and it seems like someone else swoops in and gets what we were waiting for. But Archie didn’t let that harden him. He stayed kind, stayed present, stayed… Archie.

So I smiled, gave him a scratch behind the ear, and said, “Good boy.” Then I went to the fridge and gave him four fish instead.

Because kindness deserves kindness. And patience? It multiplies what you were waiting for.