The cat kept screaming endlessly in the kitchen: the owner was about to swat him with a rag, but the cat wasn’t crying out for no reason…

The apartment was supposed to be quiet.

My sister had left for her two-week vacation that morning, trusting me to stay in her place and look after her orange tabby, Milo. She warned me he was “a bit dramatic,” but I figured that was just typical cat behavior.

By evening, I wasn’t feeling well.

A pounding headache, a blocked nose, chills running through my body. By nightfall, my fever had spiked, and all I wanted was to collapse onto the bed and sleep.

That’s when the screaming started.

Not a soft meow.
Not a hungry chirp.

It was a full-blown, desperate howl coming from the kitchen.

“Milo… please…” I muttered, dragging myself out of bed.

I filled his food bowl, poured fresh water, and even gave him a few treats. He ate calmly, tail flicking, eyes relaxed. Problem solved — or so I thought.

The moment I lay back down, the screaming returned.

Louder.

I stumbled back to the kitchen. More food. More water. Cleaned the litter box. Gave him attention.

Nothing seemed wrong.

Yet every time I tried to rest, Milo screamed like something terrible was happening.

After the fifth trip, my patience was gone.

My head was pounding. My fever made everything feel unreal. When Milo started yowling again, I snapped.

“Enough!”

I grabbed a damp rag and waved it in the air, shooing him out of the kitchen. I shut the door.

Silence.

Finally.

I collapsed into bed, my body aching, my eyes burning.

Then I heard it.

Not screaming.

Scratching.

A slow, frantic scraping sound coming from the kitchen door.

Milo wasn’t crying anymore.

He was trying to get back in.

Annoyed and exhausted, I forced myself up and opened the door, ready to scold him.

The moment the door swung open, a wave of heat hit my face.

The smell followed.

Gas.

My heart skipped.

The stove.

One of the burners was on — no flame, just gas pouring into the room.

I must have brushed against the knob earlier in my fever haze.

The windows were closed.

The apartment was filling up.

Milo stood by the stove, eyes wide, fur puffed up, tail twitching nervously. The screaming, the refusal to let me sleep, the scratching at the door — it all suddenly made sense.

He wasn’t being dramatic.

He was trying to save my life.

I rushed to turn off the stove, threw open every window, and collapsed onto the kitchen floor, shaking.

Milo jumped onto my chest, pressing his warm body against mine, purring loudly for the first time all night.

If I had stayed in bed…

If I had ignored him…

I might never have woken up.