Posts Tagged ‘cat called fluffy’

STORY — Interview with a cat: “Don’t Call Me Fluffy”

Friday, June 4th, 2010

Grumpy cat called fluffy

Interviewer: First of all, thank you for your time in answering a few questions.

Cat: Meow meow meow, this is not a good move on my part.

Interviewer: How so?

Cat: A cat needs its mystery. But humans need to understand something, so I’m speaking out. Hope I don’t regret this.

Interviewer: Which is—?

Cat: I don’t like their hands all over me.

Interviewer: But I thought cats—

Cat: And what’s with the kitty-kitty crapola?

Interviewer: But you like to be petted and cooed at?

Cat: Yeah, sure, under certain terms and conditions. I’m not a bloody mobile phone you just pick up whenever the urge comes on.

Interviewer: But most cats—

Cat: Hey! Pay attention. I have no desire to be petted when I don’t want to be petted. Just because I have fur, am able to purr, and lick my privates with the greatest of ease, does not mean I want to be suddenly picked up and called really pathetic pet names. Sometimes I’m sitting there licking my rear end recalling what I had for breakfast and suddenly I’m in some sort of air elevator and being lifted and carried from the chair where I was perfectly settled and then dropped off at the bottom of the stairs where I had no desire or need to be. What do I look like, a stuffed animal, dirty laundry? I have hopes, and joys, I have feelings and desires.

Interviewer: So how do you solve…?

Cat: Once in a while I scratch the hell out of them. That’s after I’ve tried everything else. Stopping the purr machine. Narrowing the eyes. Squirming in their grip. Swishing my tale. Flattening the ears. I mean, I give signals. I have all sorts of ways that say no pretty clearly. Still they do the fur. Start between my ears and end at my tail, again and again, and then call me Fluffy. I mean, Fluffy? There’s no respect in such names. So when they call me Fluffy, that’s it. I scratch and take some skin off them. And they seem so surprised. They don’t get it. So I hope they read this and get it.

Interviewer: I see.

Cat: Don’t get me wrong. There’s hope for the long term relationship. After it’s out of my system and I’m settled down, I make it up to them when I’m hungry. Rub against their pants legs, make with the throat sounds, shed on them. Walk the figure eights, the whole cute deal. They forgive me and put some food in my bowl, maybe a puddle of milk if I’m lucky. I eat, I lick, but why is it when I’m getting to a difficult spot on my left shoulder, and hit a tough clump of fur I couldn’t dislodge last time—suddenly they have crept up behind me, lift me in the air, call me fluffy, and again I have to scratch the holy crap out of them. Do they not learn? I do, can’t they? Who trains them, exactly? Who’s in charge, that’s what I need to know?

Interviewer: I’m not sure—

Cat: I mean, put yourself in my place. Whoops! Is that a mouse over there? Gotta go. Spread the word!