ASK FLUFFIESAREFOOD
Volume 4 Number 1
Happy Black Friday, Fluffherders! It’s Friday November 24, 2084, and time to begin the annual retelling of that heartwarming Christmas story, Melissa Glockmeister’s A Fluffy For Chrismas.
First appearing in WUSA newspapers in December of 2040, A Fluffy For Christmas tells the tale of a young couple in New York City, whose fates are derailed by the events of 2030. It recounts what life was like in those dark days, and the light at the end of the tunnel that presented itself through their loveable and humble pet fluffy Woody.
The tale of Glockmeister herself is no less harrowing a story. She was a teenager in Philadelphia when the Russians invaded the United States. After two years of difficult circumstances, she and her one year old daughter procured the services of a “coyote,” who smuggled them through the border to still-recovering Pittsburgh. From there they made her way to Chicago, where she scrapped together a living as a waitress began work on her short stories. Her first collection, The Occupied Girl, told semi-autobiographical stories from her time in the EUSA. At first it was published by a small press, but a major publisher picked up second edition rights, and in 2036 The Occupied Girl became a Los Angeles Times best-seller.
Based on this initial success, the Tribune Media Company commissioned from Glockmeister a Christmas story set in the EUSA. That story, A Fluffy For Christmas, was the first truly popular fictional account of early fluffherding in the EUSA. It appeared in newspapers in five weekly installments, one a week until the conclusion just before Christmas Day. Per tradition, we will repeat A Fluffy For Christmas here in the same format.
What is not included today, but was in the initial publication, is the warning to readers that the material might seem violent or disturbing. When it was first published, WUSA readers were not used to slaughtering their own fluffies for food. These days such a warning would be quaint or outdated, as today her accounts seem positively festive.
And so, dear readers, please enjoy part one of that holiday classic, A Fluffy For Christmas.
–
A Fluffy For Christmas
By Melissa Glockmeister
Part One
March 21, 2030
Joan remembered when Spring in New York wasn’t this warm. Jogging through Central Park in 70 degree weather was pleasant, even as it nibbled at the back of Joan’s mind that it shouldn’t be that way. When she was five years old she remembered needing a jacket walking through Central Park or the World Trade center memorial, the crisp end of Winter and start of Spring forever tied to her birthday.
Her birthday. Today was her birthday. Dave, the big romantic Dave, would want to do something. Flowers and dinner at Mitchell’s usually. Really she was so busy that she’d have been happier with take-out Chinese and Netflix. But her Mom kept telling her to slow down once in a while and smell the roses, and that meant letting Dave do is something. Joan knew she’d enjoy it. She just didn’t want the guilt that came with slacking off to enjoy herself.
Joan’s Fitbit vibrated. She looked at it. Five kilometers. Time for a break. Joan slowed to a hald and bent over to catch her breath.
“Scuse me!” a small voice piped behind her.
Joan looked back to see a little brown feral fluffy mare peeking from under a bush. Central Park was lousy with ferals, and had been for years. These days they were smart enough to stay off the paths, or at least to keep their shit off the paths, but they still filled the green spaces and waterways with shit and rotting corpses for city workers to clean up.
“Scuse me nice wady!”
Joan stood straight to stratch. “What is it little girl?”
“Nee nummies fo miwkies fo babbehs to gwo big an stwong. Nice wady haf nummies?”
Joan shook her head. “Sorry little girl, I got nothing.”
“Oh.” The fluffy looked dejected. “Okay wady, tank yu.” She fluffy wandered off.
That fluffy was brave and bold, and stupid. Joan knew she had to report it. Not reporting a feral didn’t carry penalties the same way as abandoning or feeding one did, but reporting the fluffy was the socially responsible thing to do. She retrieved her phone from the pocket on her jogging skirt and opened the Clean Parks app. A minute later the Parks Department had the feral’s location and description. No doubt the fluffy and her brood would be captured or dead within the day.
Joan completed her jog and crawled up three flights of stairs to the massively expensive one bedroom apartment she shared with Dave. Dave stood in the kitchenette, smiling ear to ear.
“Guess what I got you?” Dave asked, at thirty-three sounding as enthusiastic as a fifth grader.
“I’m sweaty and hot, can I shower first?” Joan stripped off her athletic bra and made for the bathroom.
“No wait…”
Dave was too late; Joan opened the door and was greeted by a fluffy earth pony.
“Hewwo nice wady!”
Joan shrieked and reflexively covered herself. The earth pony, brown with a blonde mane and tail, stared back at her, madly wagging, eyes filled with unconditional love.
“Dave, what the hell?” Joan angrily threw her befouled sports bra in his face. It didn’t seem to dampen his enthusiasm any.
“You’ve always been talking about how you wanted a cat but were allergic. So I got us a fluffy pony.”
“Without consulting me.” It wasn’t a question; it was an accusation.
“I know, I know, but listen. I’ve already cleared it with management. This pony is from the shelter. He’s neutered and they tell me he’s very friendly and well trained. He’ll poop in the litter box, only needs kibble and a can of spaghetti a week, and knows to stay off the bed when we’re sleeping there.”
“But you didn’t consult me.”
“I know, I know, but Joan, listen. We’re both in our thirties now. Which means it’s time to start pulling the trigger on things we want. And we’ve always wanted a hypoallergeic pet to liven up the apartment. And yes, a fluffy is very retro, which is why I was able to get him for cheap.”
Joan gave Dave a piercing stare. “You understand that I’m mad at you right now, right?”
“Yes, and I’m sorry, you’re right, I should have consulted you. But think about it?”
“Will you at least…what’s his name anyway?”
The fluffy piped up. “Am cawwed Hazewnut!”
Joan looked at Dave incredulously. “Hazelnut? Really? You know how I feel about naming animals after food.”
“We can always rename him.”
“It makes me think that we’re going to eat him like how some people eat dogs.”
“Nu eat Hazewnut!” The fluffy backed away with a look of distress.
Joan turned to Hazelnut. “Simmer down, Hazelnut, nobody is eating you.” The fluffy looked relieved.
“Joan…we can rename him. Or give him to someone else. Whatever you want. He’s your birthday present.”
“Can we…you know…return him?” Joan and Dave both understood that returning an adopted fluffy meant that the fluffy would probably be doomed to die.
“Whatever you want.”
Joan sighed and, realizing that she was a sweaty half-naked mess, resigned to at least seriously consider Dave’s gift. “Will you please get this fluffy out of the bathroom so I can have some privacy?”
“Promise me you’ll think about keeping him?”
“Yes, absolutely. Just get him out of the bathroom. I need to shower.”
“Sure thing sweetie. Come on Hazelnut.” Dave picked up the fluffy by the tummy to carry him out.
“Bye bye nice wady!” he piped as Dave carried him out.
Joan closed the bathroom door and locked it. She put the rest of her sweat-soaked clothes in the laundry hamper next to the toilet and proceeded to take a longer shower than usual.
She thought about it. This was a signature Dave big romantic gesture. What is it about guys and big romantic gestures? But Dave did have a point. They weren’t getting younger. And now that she was thirty years old … Happy birthday to me … it was time to start treating herself to the things she always wanted.
And she always wanted a pet. And much as she didn’t appreciate what was effectively emotional blackmail, she didn’t want the fluffy to die, either.
Joan made up her mind. Now clean of body and clear of thought, she stopped the water, dried off, wrapped herself in a towel, and stepped out of the bathroom. Dave was in back in the kitchenette feeding baby carrots to Hazelnut.
“Dave, can I talk to you in private?”
“Sure babe. Stay here, Hazelnut, okay?”
Hazelnut nodded while chewing on a carrot.
Dave followed Joan into their bedroom, and Joan closed the door.
Joan started the conversation matter-of-factly. “This was a really stupid thing to do.”
Dave gave looked back with puppy dog eyes. “I took a risk.”
“You did. And…you’re not wrong.”
Dave grinned inside.
Joan steeled herself for the next part, by grabbing a long tee shirt from her dresser. She put it on over her towel-covered body and dropped the towel. She grabbed a pair of paint-stained sweats and put them on under her shirt. For Dave purposes, this was enough to be ‘clothed.’
“I have three conditions if we’re going to keep that thing.”
“Okay.”
“Condition one,” Joan said as she raised a finger. “We rename him. I’m serious about the naming pets after food thing. It’s unsettling.”
“Done. We’ll rename him.”
“Condition two,” Joan said raising a second finger. “You take him to the vet. I’ll be happy to share walking him, feeding him, cleaning the litterbox, whatever. But you know as well as I do that I have too much stuff on my plate to make time to get him to vet appointments. So that’s 100% on you.”
“Agreed.”
“Good. Now, condition three.” She raised a third finger. “You do all the homework on fluffy care. I’m happy to do the work, but you’re going to figure out how to do the work. Again, I have too much stuff on my plate. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“Good. Now.” She sighed. “What do we name our fluffy?”
Dave stepped up to Joan and put his arms around her, staring in her eyes. “You won’t regret this.”
“I better not.”
“Let’s call him Woody.”
“Like my uncle,” Joan asked.
“Like he’s the color of wood paneling.”
“Like cheap apartment wood paneling?”
“You’re not wrong.”
Joan closed her eyes and leaned her head against Dave’s. “Okay. Let’s take tonight and get to know Woody.”
And so, they did.
–
And so, Woody the adopted fluffy finds a new home with Joan and Dave. But what will become of these three when history intercedes? Find out next week in the next installment of A Fluffy For Christmas!
Ask FluffiesAreFood is a service of the Fluffherders’ Association of America. If you have a question about raising, slaughtering, or eating of fluffies, you may comment here or send FluffiesAreFood a PM.