The news of the day as seen from the perspective of a pensionable domestic moggy called Fluffy.

Saturday, January 07, 2006

The Last Post

Sadly, on Friday 6 January 2006, Fluffy died. As the previous post indicates, she hadn't been well for a while. After that trip to the vet's, we thought she was getting better but she stopped being able to keep her food down and went into quite steep decline.

By Thursday, she was pitifully weak. An emergency trip to the vet provided new food but while she managed to eat it, she continued to get weaker and on Friday we decided to let her go.

Fluffy was a fantastic companion: as daft as a brush, demanding, vocal, infuriating at times - but with a cute face and almost Manga-esque big eyes. It feels weird round the house without her.

"Big Familiar Food Provider" and "Fatboy"

More Fluffy pics....
We're rational people who realise she was only a cat who wasn't a conscious being. We know what 'anthropomorphic' means. But... damn it, she was cute.

She could do snoozy....


even pensive... What's not to love?

Saturday, December 31, 2005

Dodging the bullet

Bless them, they've been worried about me. It is true that I've been losing weight. It is true I've been acting a bit, well, mental. I'm not my usual nimble self - in fact, I've been nothing if not a bit wobbly on me feet.

So, this morning I know there's trouble when The Box reappears from the loft. That means either (a) we're moving house or (b) some overpaid prat is going to shove their finger up my arse. And they weren't packing boxes.

I know it's for my own good but there's a depressing sense of foreboding, nay doom, that descends upon a cat when they are being transported to have their anus manhandled. I squeaked and miaowed but my fate was sealed.

In fact, it was worse than that. There were mutterings about 'the next cat' and 'how depressing it was to put a cat down'. Cheers. Let's face it - as far as they were concerned, it was 50/50 whether it was going to be a miracle cure or death by lethal injection. Gulp.

As it happens, it turned out okay really. Okay, I know weigh a mere 1.5 kilos and I had the indignity of having my abdomen manhandled, but actually he said I was merely getting old and not to worry too much. I've got some new food (much nicer, moist and tasty) and he didn't even shove his finger up my bottom. Result!

So, once again I've dodged the bullet. There's no keeping a good moggy down.

It's also a bit ridiculous. If losing weight quite rapidly and acting like a mentalist was good cause for being killed, Geri Halliwell would have left this mortal coil at the point of a syringe long ago.

Saturday, November 12, 2005

The F-Plan Diet: Eat Yourself Thin The Fluffy Way

People say to me, "Fluffy, how come you are so thin when all you do all day is sleep and eat." And I say to them, "Piss off with that moralising tone."

But I am exceptionally slim for a moggy of my years. I should be getting fat but instead I'm as springy and sprightly as a flea on speed. How do I do it? Well, my carefully-honed diet consists of (a) some crunchies; (b) demanding small morsels of food at regular whenever they go near a fridge and (c) lots of licky plates when they're done scoffing.

Actually, all that vocalising really takes it out of you. Your diaphragm is a pretty darn big muscle. Combine that with jumping on worktops to snaffle food...

Nobody likes the new design

Okay, it is a bit twee, it's obviously been designed by the people that brought you 'Little House on the Prairie'. But it was an emergency cos I ballsed-up the old one.

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

Popular demand

Apparently, there have been complaints. 'Oh, Fluffy, why haven't you updated your blog?' they cry. Well, the main reason is that I'm an elderly cat (or a 'cat of age' as the PC crowd would no doubt say). I've gotta lotta sleepin' to do, and not enough time to do it. There's your fully fledged kip, to be enjoyed on a nice armchair overnight. There's snoozing to be done in the afternoon when it's really far too warm for a cat to be running round, especially a cat as fluffy as me. And then there are naps, which can be scattered around at any point during the day, and pretty much fill in the periods between kips and snoozes.

It's a wonder I find enough time to climb on furniture, wail at the chubby people I share this house with, and eat.

Tuesday, August 02, 2005

Homeward bound

For me, living in a particular city doesn't mean much. I'm a domestic cat, and as such, I don't get out a lot. However, it's nice to have friends round, but that's only possible when the gruesome twosome are out.

But I must admit, my social network is a little stronger in London than it was ever likely to be in Nottingham, so I was quite pleased when it was announced that we were all going to be moving back down to the 'Smoke'. In truth, I had been putting out a few feelers in that direction, so to speak, so it was nice to see these come to fruition. Okay, constantly urinating on the upstairs carpet lacks subtlety, but it's difficult to get your message across when your 'owners' are dimwits.

Anyhow, this presented me with a problem. The actual process of moving is, to my mind, almost as much of a pain in the arse as having a rubber-gloved finger shoved up your most sensitive orifice by a half-trained vet (see A pain in the arse). I like travelling in a car about as much as B.A. Baracus in The A-Team enjoyed flying. They could at least knock me out when I have to travel, but no, I just get shoved into a plastic cage.

Damn fools.

When we travelled up to Nottingham, they at least allowed me to sit on a quilt while we drove along. Not this time, oh no. This time I was forced to stay in the box the whole time, despite my protests, which ranged from the aggressive to the pathetic (I've got a dramatic range which makes Judi Dench look like a clown). Instead, all he did was take little video clips of my attempts to escape.

'Oh look,' he'd laugh as yet another piece of footage was stored for posterity. 'She's trying to escape. Bless!' Well, listen Mr Steven Fatboy Bastard Spielberg - remember the thin faces pressed against the wire in Schindler's List!

Okay... a little melodramatic. I get very claustrophobic.

Anyway, I decided to keep my head down, especially once they started to feed me pieces of Marks and Sparks roast chicken. Shhlurrp! Best make the most of a bad lot, I reckon.

The weird thing was when we got to London, we were moving back into the place we left. What IS the point? I sniffed and sniffed at every nook and cranny, and it was definitely the same place.

And I'm still locked out of all the really interesting rooms. Gonna keep my bum under control under their guard drops. You aren't really at home till you've pooed on the bed.

Friday, August 06, 2004

Blue creature

Nervous. Not only is there a red, long-trunked creature in the house. They've got another one. It's blue.

(a) Will it attack me?
(b) Am I on my way out in favour of these new pets that don't appear to poo or need food (although they can be very noisy).

This one is called 'Hoover'. It's a stupid name.

Sunday, July 18, 2004

My bum
... is not to be discussed in relation to any 'backdoor' activity!
That may appear to be a bald statement, but Swurelykins and Ratboy (who they?) are apparently being rude about my derriere as we speak on an internet chat-type session. Disgraceful.