“Night night daddy,” Sandra said to me, as I tucked her in to bed. Minutes later, she was fast asleep. I had given her a bath, and read her a story, turning the pages to look at the pictures with her. Gazing down at her, I realised how lucky I was to have such a wonderful daughter. Moments later, my brief reverie was shattered by the demands of her squawking pet.
“Gowdie wan tweaty! Daddah giv tweaty to bestest fwuffy!”
I looked down at the honey coloured fluffy with disgust. Sandra had insisted that Goldie could snuggle her in bed, and listen to bed-time stories with her. It was ruining what little quality time I had with my daughter, and having just got her to sleep, I didn’t want the damned shit-rat to wake her back up again.
“Wan tweaty!” the creature insisted.
Pinching the golden fluffy by the scruff of its neck, I lifted it out from under my sleeping daughters little arm, and extricated it from her bed with a minimum of fuss. Ignoring its cries of “bad upsies!” I carried it swiftly downstairs, thankful for the diaper I had persuaded Sandra it needed. Sandra treated Goldie like a baby anyway, and understood, thankfully, that scaredy-poopies and sorry-poopies were not something that belonged in her bed. It was just as well, as the fluffy was shitting itself with fear as I marched downstairs with it held roughly by its neck-fluff.
“Nu wike bad upsies! Wet fwuffy go ow get sowwy poopies and wowstest owwies!”
I looked at the fluffy with utter contempt. It was puffing up its cheeks and trying to act tough. If it was up to me, I would smash the creature to a pulp, or throw it out into the streets, to see how long it would last in a Maine winter’s night. But it wasn’t up to me. Sandra loved Goldie, she loved her completely. I couldn’t just kill it.
For a long while, I used to fantasize about giving the fluffy an “accident”. Like backing over it with my car, or introducing it to a neighbour’s dog or cat, or dropping it in our swimming pool. Sandra would still be heartbroken though, and my ex-wife would realise what I’d done, and use that shit against me, trying to deny me access. It had taken years to see my daughter as much as I now did, and I sure as hell didn’t want to lose that because of a fucking fluffy. Sometimes I thought my ex had bought Sandra Goldie just to get it to torment me.
“Gowdie wan tweaty!” the shit-rat said, repeating its earlier demand. An idea dawned on me.
“Ok Goldie, you can have a treaty, and another bed-time story,” I told her, with a fake cheery voice.
“Gowdie can hav tweaty? An bed-tiem stowy? Weawy?”
“Yes, of course you can,” I said, and handed the fluffy a grape.
The spoiled fluffy threw the grape on the floor, and puffed out her cheeks again.
“Nu wan gwape! Wan chokwit!”
For a moment, I imagined throwing her into the fire place, which still had glowing red ash covered logs from the fire I had started earlier. Imagining how it would scream as its fluff burned off and its eyes melted amused me for a moment, but did nothing to stop the demands.
“Stoopid daddah! Gowdie wan chokwit! Giv chokwit naow ow get wowstest sowwy poopies!”
The diapered fluffy was too retarded to realise its threats were futile. Nevertheless, I relented and reached for a box of Christmas chocolates. Sitting down by the fire, I sat the fluffy down on my lap, gave it a chocolate and threw another log on the fire. Then, I reached for the story book which I knew would be one way of hurting the fluffy.
“So Goldie, are you ready for your story?” I asked her.
“Nom nom nom…” muched the fluffy, as it devoured its chocolate. A mouthful for a human was a feast for a fluffy. “Yes daddah… nom nom nom… fwuffy am weady.”
“Very well then, I will begin.”
“Once upon a time, there lived a fluffy, named Goldilocks.”
“G-gowdiewocks? Dat sound wike fwuffy name!”
“Yes, Goldilocks was a golden coloured fluffy, just like you Goldie. She could have been your sister. In fact, why don’t you imagine that you ARE Goldilocks?”
“Otay daddah,” the fluffy replied, actually snuggling up on my lap, and licking the last of the chocolate from her face and hooves.
“Goldilocks lived out in the woods, where she loved to run and play, and find berries and other treats to eat. But one day, she found a cottage, hidden away in the middle of the woods.”
“Wat am cottage daddah?” Goldie asked me.
“Its a small human home,” I explained, “But this home was not for humans, it was a home for BEARS.”
“B-beaws?” the fluffy said, scared at the change in my tone of voice, “wat am beaws?”
“Bears are big, scary, brown-fluffed monsters, with giant teeth and claws. The like to num little girls like Sandra, but best of all, they LOVE to num little fluffies!”
“Nuu! Gowdie nu wike Beaw-mustahs! Nu wan be nummed!”
“You’re right. Good fluffies would run away from the BEAR house. But Goldilocks was a bad, greedy fluffy, and she just HAD to go inside, to see if she could find any nummies to steal.” As I pretended to read the story, I also showed Goldie some of the pictures, showing her the cottage, the woods and the bears, but hiding Goldilocks. Being unable to read, but familiar with the pictures from the stories I had read to Sandra, Goldie believed everything I said.
“Goldilocks was very bad, and very greedy. She sneaked inside the BEAR house, to see what nummies they had to eat.”
Goldie said nothing, but quivered with fear in my lap.
“Once inside, Goldielocks found some nummies. The first thing she found was kibble,” I lied to her, glossing over the pot of porridge picture.
“Ptew…” spat Goldie, “yucky kibbew, fwuffy nu wike.”
“Goldielocks didn’t like the kibble either,” I lied, “the next thing she found was some grapes. But she didn’t eat them either. The next thing she found was DADDY BEAR’S CHOCOLATE.”
“D-did Gowdiewocks num da chockwit?”
“Yes,” I said, menacingly, widening my eyes and baring my teeth as I did so, “She ate ALL of it. A WHOLE BAR.”
“Gowdie wike chokwit,” was the fluffies response, although I swear it pissed itself with fear at the same time.
“Then, Goldielocks needed to find somewhere to sleep, do you know where she slept?”
“Nu…” Goldie admitted.
“First, she tried to sleep in a fluffy bed. But she didn’t like it. Then, she tried to sleep in daddy bear’s bed, but she didn’t like that either. Then, she tried to sleep in the baby bear’s bed, and that was JUST RIGHT.”
Goldie seemed to cheer up a bit, “Gowdie wike dis stowy, Gowdiewock’s nummed aww da chokwit, den gets to sweep in da baby beddy. Can Gowdie num mowe chokwit, an sweep in da Sandwa beddy? Nu wike sweep in Fwuffy beddy.”
“Oh my sweet little fluffy,” I said to her sarcastically, “the story isn’t over yet. Do you know what happened to Goldilocks next?” I asked her, my eyes glinting in the fire light.
“Um…” the fluffy swallowed, “Nu?”
“THE BEARS CAME HOME!” I said loudly, raising my arms in the air and curling my fingers into claws, the firelight casting great dancing shadows across the back wall of the room.
“Nuu!” Goldie replied, "Wun away Gowdiewocks! Nu get nummed by Beaw-mustahs! Nu num beaw nummies! Beaw wiww get angwy wiv fwuffy!
“And do you know what they did to Goldielocks?” I asked her.
“Nu!” said the now terrified fluffy.
“DADDY BEAR NUMMED HER!” I said, then started to growl, and picked up the panicking fluffy, opened my mouth and pretended to bite and savage its belly, pulling its fluff and growling as loud as I could, but causing it no real damage.
“Nuuuu! Nu num fwuffy! Nu wan be nummed by Daddah-Beaw! Fwuffy am sowwy! Nu wan be nummed! Nuuuuuu!”
I shook her around in my mouth for a bit, thankful for the fluffy diaper she was wearing, as she filled it with terror-poopies, then, after about thirty seconds or so, I finally dropped the hysterical crying fluffy into its fluffy nest, and sat down to watch it for a little while.
“Huuu huuu huu… Fwuffy nu wike meanie stowy… nu wan be nummed by daddah-Beaw… Nu wan nu stowies nu mowe… Nu wan num chokwit… nu wan sweep in Sandwa beddy nu mowe… huu huu huu… huu huu huu…”
The fluffy cried for a long time. Eventually, when it was able to breathe properly and listen, I told it that I was a Were-bear, and that every full moon, I would turn into a bear. But that also, if I got really angry, I might turn into a bear at ANY TIME, and would probably num Goldie and Sandra. For this reason, Goldie had to promise to be good, and never make me angry, ever again. Goldie promised to be good.
“Gowdie wiww be gud! Nu ask fow tweaties! Nu sowwy poopies! Wiww be gud! Pwease nu num fwuffy an Sandwa!”
“Good. And don’t you forget it,” I told the quivering fluffy.
I turned to go upstairs, turning out the light. The fire would burn for a while, casting flickering shadows all over the walls of my home. I deliberately didn’t turn on Goldie’s night light, which was a guaranteed recipe for giving her nightmares. As I walked up to bed, I heard the sounds of the fluffy, quietly sobbing itself to sleep.