The reason I had to get over being allergic to cats was because when you call the police to explain that a three-inch tall man has tried to break into your house and kill your son, the men in blue are generally disinclined to believe you.

My son's name is Doug. He will be two in April. And so far, there have been twenty-eight outright attempts on his life. These are the ones my wife and I are aware of. All of these attacks have been instigated by the previously mentioned men, all of whom appear to be perfectly identical, like plastic Army men come to life. But they are flesh. I know this. And they bleed.

I know they are trying to kill my son because they always come armed with weapons that are the appropriate size for them to carry, and they can be lethal to a child Doug's size.

I caught the first one, standing on the rim of Doug's crib, holding a machete that was not even an inch long. I had heard a sound in the perpetual shallow sleep of the still-new parent, and woke, thinking I had heard Doug shifting around in his room, perhaps about to wake up. I rolled out of bed, went into the next room, and went from lethargic to completely awake in a split-second. In the light from the halway, my mind saw some kind of odd beetle, finishing its crawl up the side of Doug's crib and looking like it was ready to pounce onto him.

Without thinking, I swatted at the thing and sent it sailing across the room to die broken against the far wall. Two things happened in that instant that do not normally occur when encountering and dispatching a household pest.

It took a minute for me to realize that my hand was bleeding–the finger he had gotten was nearly cut down to the bone–because I had been distracted. I had been distracted because beetles don't cry out when they die.

I went to the wall, examined the red dot that had been left by the tiny man's skull cracking open after his metal helmet caved in, and then looked down onto the floor.

That's when I saw the first of them. A miniature man, neck and limbs at strange angles after being hurled what was, for him anyway, an incredible distance. After staring for a moment or two in disbelief, the pain in my hand drew my attention. I held up my hand, inspected it, and saw the gash.

The blade had skittered under the changing table. I saw it gleam and fished it out, confirming its sharpness by slicing a baby wipe in two by simply passing the blade down the paper's length.

I went to the hallway and hissed low for her to get up and come quickly. "He's fine," I added before her mind could start to become worried about Doug's safety.

By the time I had finished explaining to her what had happened, the little man's body, clothes and all, has begun to dissolve. Within minutes, all trace he had ever been there was gone. Except…for the blade. It stayed just as sharp as when it almost cost me a finger.

I lied, you know. I haven't called the police, that night or any other night. Because again, what would you say to them? "Yes, officer, the damndest thing…little bastard melted away to nothing as you were
pulling up." And they don't appear on film, we learned this in later experiments…how great is that? The only proof I had that night apart from a fellow crazyperson, my wife, who also saw the little corpse is a tiny machete, which in the end looks like a toy soldier's, and a cut on my hand, which could have come from anything.

No, after a serious discussion between my wife and I we decided to wait and see what would happen. We both sat up all night in the nursery, standing guard. I kept looking at the deep cut on my finger. I saw that little killer going for my boy's jugular. His temples. His eyes. I barely blinked the rest of the night.

The next night we took turns standing guard. Two hours up, two hours down. And three pots of coffee. But…there was no repeat of the previous night's incident.

Dawn came and we were very relieved, both of us. As odd as it sounded, I thought perhaps it was just one of those things. Those odd crazy moments that in time you'll convince yourself: not a man, a bug of some kind. I cut my hand on the outside of the crib when I freaked out.

I remember thinking these things as I walked out onto my front porch and then sneezed violently. Looking down, there was a large, grizzled cat. He was missing part of one ear and his fur was uneven. A very unattractive creature. He was just sitting there, looking up at me, as though he was expecting me. I was going to tell the beast to get lost–I love cats, but as I said, I've always been highly allergic–but then I saw what was sitting by its front paws.

Where some cats might leave you a dead bird or squirrel as their idea of a gift, this cat hadn't brought me dead animals at all. Instead, he had brought me knives. Three of them. All of them less than an inch long.

I turned and glanced at the mail slot in my front door. I could see a series of scratches on the wood that I didn't recall being there before. Three of them had tried to come through the front door mail slot and try again. And this cat had stopped them. With extreme prejudice.

At that moment, my wife came to see why I had stopped half in, half out of the house. Her eyes went from the cat to the knives and in an instant, she had understood. Doug, cradled in one arm, looked at the cat, gave a happy little gurgle and shouted "Granda!" With that, the cat, duly named, had walked past us and into the house. He stayed with us until they finally overwhelmed him two nights ago.

Now, I know what you may be thinking. Granda does sound a lot like some baby talk version of "Grandpa," or even "Granddad," but the fact of the matter is that Doug had never met either of his grandfathers. I was raised solely by my mom and never knew the sperm donor, while my wife's father died of cancer while we were still dating. I have no idea what the true significance of the name is, but the cat would answer to it.

The battle escalated, with more and more time passing between each attempt at invasion. As the little men brought more reinforcements each time, so did Granda. He would come into our bedroom and rouse us with a low yowling noise when the time came, then go to oversee his own troops.

With each attack, Granda would counter the additional men with additional animals. We had no idea where they came from. We could not even count how many were on "our side" because my wife and I were always in the nursery, the last line of defense. I've heard more cats, I've heard birds, I've heard the pounding feet of dogs, and other nameless wildlife, all somehow called to our aid. Each morning after an attack, we'd find the knives scattered about the yard, the porch, even the foyer. We've found air vents removed, a dozen or so blades as testament to the fact the integrity of the house had been breached.

Two nights ago, as I said, the men finally took Granda. Somehow they had managed to open the front door (the chain was cut cleanly in two, a deadbolt was melted into slag) and fired something at the cat. It sounded like a shot of some kind, like you would hear from a regular-sized pistol. I feared for our safety and told my wife to stay put.

Looking down from upstairs, I saw Granda's light brown form sprawled on the rug, unmoving. One paw gave a twitch and he was still. I barely noticed this last movement, though, for the army–literally–the army of men began their march, clambering up and over each step.

Before I could even think about beginning to mount some kind of defensive move, there was a blur of fur-covered movement in the door. An enormous Great Dane had bounded inside and was tearing through the men like they were…well, what my initial impression had been: little beetles. With this to turn the tide, the fallen Granda's troops rallied and stormed in as well, laying waste.

After the last of the men were dead, the animals seemed to look around and, seeing nothing left that needed killing, they departed. All of them. The other stray cats. The birds. The large–what I thought at least–was a bobcat. And others I didn't have time to take note of.

All except for the enormous dog. He plodded carefully up the steps and tossed a strange melting slag at my feet. I could see the barrel rotting away and realized this must have been their latest weapon advancement–the one that had ended our chief defender's life.

The dog then plodded into the nursery and laid down, bruised and bloodied, at the side of Doug's crib. The explosion downstairs had woken him, and he had been crying in my wife's arms. But now he looked down at the dog and smiled. "Granda!" he called, suddenly cheerful.

There hasn't been another attack, but this just happened, as I have told you. At the rate things were going, it could be a month before the men can pull together enough to try again.

Granda is with us now as his predecessor was, always watching, prowling, helping to guard our son. I have since given up the doses of Benadryl and shots that made me able to accept Granda the First into our home. It was a small price to pay to keep my son safe.

I have no idea why this is happening. I don't know who sends the little men. I don't know who sent Granda, either of them. I don't know why anyone or anything would want my baby boy to die.

I've seen my share of horror movies. It's occurred to me that in some versions of this story, if it were a story, the little killers might be the good guys. And myself, my wife, and Granda might be standing in the way of what they're trying to do for a greater good.

But when all is said and done, it doesn't matter. We're packing up and moving to a home that's easier to defend and we'll be gone before the week's out. This is my son we're talking about, after all. So fuck them.