The Arrival of The Fluffy Usurper

November 20, 2009

Oh, for frig’s sake. I still cannot believe what has happened. Out of the blue. With no apparent warning.

The bastards have bought The Baby a frigging kitten.

This is an OUTRAGE.

Eleven years, I’ve been with my Dad. Eleven long years. Through thick and thin. Through that awful period living at That Bastard Dave’s. Through the times he lived entirely off kebabs. Through those months living with Smokey Joe. And then, just because The Baby looked mildly interested in Enthusiastic Teacher’s kitten, they get her one as ‘a belated birthday present’. And it really was mild interest. She looked at it, stroked it, then wandered off. She does that to chairs. And why, why does she need another birthday present? She has all the birthday presents. In the world. I live in a Basement Suite I simply couldn’t swing in if I were a swinging kind of cat because it’s full of crappy bits of battery operated plastic; what does she need another moving toy for? A moving toy that frigging URINATES IN CORNERS. (Incidentally, one of her crappy bits of battery operated plastic, the Tow Truck, not only shouts out that it is ‘a Tow Truck!’ in a very loud, enthusiastic voice, it also plays a variety of songs when you press buttons on the side, one of which sounds remarkably like ‘Mein Herr’ from ‘Cabaret’. What gives there?)

Anyway, it gets worse. I am black. I am proud to be black. I am a black short-haired, neutered cat. Fluffy Usurper? He’s white. He’s white and he’s fluffy and he very much still has his testicles. This smacks of racism, or, at the very least, some type of testicle-based bigotry. Am I not good enough? Do I need to be replaced by some blue-eyed, fluffy white kitty? Yes, yes maybe I have put on some weight recently. There might be a few grey hairs sprouting on my chest. But I’m still sleek. I can still climb trees. Honestly, what were they thinking? The Mushroom better watch herself.  She’s the only other dark-haired person here. Before you know it, my Dad will bring some blue-eyed, blonde, fluffy lady in and we’ll see how she feels about that. Shit. That’s how she’ll feel. There’d be no belly tickling or chin scratching then. Oh, I am LIVID.

I have spent the last twenty-four hours, thus, under the bed in the spare room. As an aside, I really wish The Mushroom would dust in here. It’s minging. If I wasn’t so very cross, I’d sulk somewhere else. And if it wasn’t so very cold and full of coyotes, I’d sulk outside and give them a scare. As it stands, though, my underbelly is now covered in fluff and bits of The Mushroom’s hair, which can be found everywhere she goes, like some sort of weird, hairy, calling card. Urghgh.

Now, I know that he’s only a kitten, a baby cat, blah di blah, but it just isn’t fair. It isn’t fair that The Mushroom’s facebook page is now full of photos of Fluffy Usurper and comments about how ‘cute’ and ‘adorable’ he is. It isn’t fair that Fluffy Usurper can wee on the floor and not be told off for it. It’s not fair that Fluffy Usurper can leave a Code Brown on their bed and for them to just laughingly clear it up. And most of all, it isn’t fair that he’s IN MY HOUSE.

I can hear my Dad and The Mushroom talking about how I’ll get used to it. How Fluffy Usurper will look up to me. How I can take care of him. Bollocks to that. Fluffy Usurper is just another in a long line of contenders for my frigging Iams.

The only ray of light in this otherwise dismal, dark day is the fact that I have, in my glimpses into the living room, seen The Baby pick Fluffy Usurper up by his tail about three times, and twice by one of his ears. That must hurt. Aha. Ahahahahaha. Ha.



Speaking of racists, the other day my Dad has a Parents’ Evening at school, from which he didn’t come back until 10.45 pm.

“Why in the name of cheese are you back so late?”, asked The Mushroom as she stroked my ears, in the days before the Fluffy Usurper.

My Dad sighed. “I was accused of being racist.”

“What? Why?”

My Dad sighed again and removed his tie. “Because I have a picture of Adolf Hitler in my classroom.”

The Mushroom stared at him.

“And a parent thought having a picture of Adolf Hitler up in my classroom must mean that I loved Adolf Hitler.”

“Did you try to explain”, said The Mushroom as she placed me back on the floor, “That you’re a history teacher?”


“And that Hitler is quite a key figure in history?”


“Don’t you also have a picture of Mussolini? And Stalin?”, The Mushroom asked.

My Dad eased himself into a chair. “Yes. I love all dictators.”

” And, come to think of it, don’t you have a picture of Amy Johnson?”

“Yes. I love all dictators and lady pilots. Now please give me some beer.”

She did.

I sidled up to him to comfort him. That’s what I do. Or did. In the days before the Fluffy Usurper.



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