Meow

Meet Fluffy. I’m not a cat person, but how can anyone not love this wretched creature, out of pity at the very least? I mean, just look at that mangy, falling-off fur. And that snaggletoothed, mid-screech mouth and disturbingly arched back. It’s like it caught a glimpse of itself in the mirror. Its ability to [...]

Fluffy the Big Lots cat

Meow: Meet Fluffy, the Big Lots cat who provides big laughs

Meet Fluffy. I’m not a cat person, but how can anyone not love this wretched creature, out of pity at the very least? I mean, just look at that mangy, falling-off fur. And that snaggletoothed, mid-screech mouth and disturbingly arched back. It’s like it caught a glimpse of itself in the mirror.

Its ability to scare at least a few — if not all nine — lives out of anyone, and therefore, elicit uncontrollable laughter from me has more than paid for its $15 price tag at Big Lots.

Fluffy was a Halloween gift from Chris a few years back, but he’s become a year-round presence in our household because he’s so freaking good at frightening people. Just ask my mom, who didn’t exactly relish being greeted by him when she stepped out of bed or the shower when my folks were visiting. My gigglebox still gets turned over when I think about how she shuddered in fear every single time she caught a glimpse of that cat, which, thanks to me, crept in her footsteps for five solid days.

So she begged Chris to put him in a place where I couldn’t find him, and since I avoid his closet/man cave at all costs – it’s more terrifying than Fluffy himself – he figured that was just the spot.

I can’t even remember what required my recent presence in that godforsaken warren of crap, but finding Fluffy and taking him out of his months-long hibernation was well worth it. I put him on a table in our bedroom while I schemed our next plot and its victim.

Fast forward to a few days later, when I was changing clothes in my closet. At the time, Chris was across the landing in our bedroom, in the line of sight of both Fluffy, in all his hideous glory on the table, and me, in all my naked (wouldn’t quite call it) glory in the closet.

Now, Chris has always referred to my lady bits in the most respectable manner. So when he piped up with, “So, babe, pulling out the cat, are you?” as I stripped off my pants, I was more than a bit taken aback.

Wrong cat, as it turns out: He was referring to Fluffy, not me.

Touché, Fluffy. Way to turn the tables, you prankster pussy.

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