on being fluffy

July 21st, 2011

Our cat Pu, also known as Constance Waddles, was abandoned as a kitten in a Texas desert.  He thumbed a ride north on an 18-wheeler all the way to New Hampshire seven years ago and has ruled our big schloss ever since.  Pu is an articulate linguist who speaks in whole sentences with a smattering of English and French in the mix along with an occasional bark.  He knows what he wants and when he wants it and those two items are either food or a nap.

Our other cat Spud, also known as Tiny Dancer, showed up on the porch two Christmases ago looking pathetic and forlorn.  He is now a vibrant young man in a fur suit with few words, one to be exact, “Ack”, which he rarely uses.  Spud’s notable skill is his dexterity.  He can untie a shoe, unbutton a sweater and roll the dice in a backgammon game with enviable skill.  Clearly, he is a closet nudist or a closet gambler, we’re not yet sure which.

When his fierce schedule permits, Pu works on his autobiography, “On Being Fluffy,” alternately titled, “Being and Fluffiness,” subject to his sense of existentialism at any given moment.  Spud takes down Pu’s dictation with a Sharpie pen on any surface handy, and I have been charged with editing the work-in-progress.  Ha!  I left pro bono editorial favors in the dust decades ago.  I will, however, take a page from Pu’s notional title(s), in the form of a soufflé, at least once a week, and as with editorial chores, share it never with either of those beloved critter-folks.



Copyright © Katherine Stetson, all rights reserved.