The Life of Ivan - Chapter 5
“The Consequences of Your Actions”
The alarm wakes you up promptly at 07:00. Lying in bed whilst staring at the ceiling, you remember the four legged responsibility in your basement. “Ah yes, the consequences of my own actions.” you say to nobody in particular.
One shower later, and a much needed shave, you start coffee machine and make breakfast. Today, this consists of a single bagel about three days past the expiry date with butter, a cold piece of pizza from the fridge, and a small portion container of pasta salad from the supermarket. Look at you, leading the way as the epitome of human health.
Today is the day you groom your new fluffy. She is very dirty, matted, and smelling strongly of waste. Fluffy fur is about as ‘non-stick’ as fur or hair can be, but having lived her entire life outside, it doesn’t take very long to become a sponge for dirt and piss. You know this will be an absolute nightmare, so you need to lay on the niceties extra thick today, and wear even thicker rubber gloves. Maybe you should’ve skipped the shower?
Arriving at the bottom of the steps, Crown is already staring at you, not even waiting to finish taking a dump before she starts swishing her tail. At least it’s in the litterbox.
“Hewwo daddeh! Cwown miss daddeh! Pwease gib upsies?”
You oblige, having worn a shirt typically reserved for yard work. “Good morning, Crown. I’m gonna take you upstairs today so we can get the grassies out of your fluff, how does that sound?”
“Dat mean fwuffy smeww pwetty?”
“Good fluffy, Crown. Yes it does.” Satisfied with your answer, she happily looks around as you carry her to the kitchen. Sitting her on the floor, you turn to the cabinet above the sink. Pushing past the half empty aspirin bottles, you find the prescription pain meds from your time in the hospital. It’s super hefty stuff, and according to a verified fluffy vet on a really annoying cesspool of a website with a red and white logo, a fraction of the dose you have will safely put the fluffy into a deep (AND TEMPORARY) sleep.
“Wah daddeh do? Nummies fow Cwown?”
“Of course, I have a very special treat for my best fluffy! Be right there, Crown.”
You cut a small sliver off a single pill and crush it with the flat side of the blade. Next, you cut a slit into a mushy training treat and slide the now powdered dose inside.
She is overjoyed to have a treat, no matter how small, that tastes like “sketties”. Leaving her alone in the kitchen, you go to the shed to prepare for a wash. In the sink you place something advertised as a “weggie box”. It’s just a platform a fluffy can lay on with holes for its legs, and a cutout on the rear so they can relieve themselves without sitting in it. Apparently it’s multi use as both a punishment device and…well…according to the internet it isn’t used for much else. But in this case, it’s going to hold an otherwise uncooperative fluffy.
Next you ensure that you remembered hair clippers, scissors, and a brush. After a quick double check, you seem ready. Getting Crown into the weggy box was fairly easy, she was out cold. Trimming the fur however, that was a different story. The further you went the worse it got. It was so bad that you had to begin trimming before you even finished the initial wash. But, with your experience grooming the family dog, it only took about 45 minutes. Fur trimmed nice and neat but still plenty fluffy thanks to FluffMart shampoo, you trimmed the rest of the fur underneath her tail and in between her legs just like you would’ve done for the dog.
Patting yourself on the back for not falling too far out of practice, you greatly shorten her mane to keep it out of her face and food as well as trim her tail to keep it out of the litterbox. Finally, it’s done. And so far, with no casualties. At least not yet. One thing to note, opiates are as damaging to fluffies as they are to humans. So you’re going to have to watch her closely to make sure she doesn’t get sick.
Lost in thought about that, you almost don’t realise she’s finally waking up as you set her on her bed.
“Hewwo daddeh, why Cwown go sweepies?” She says with a stretch of her forelegs.
“I was very gentle, so much that you fell right asleep. Don’t you smell so pretty now?”
She gives several long sniffs and her eyes go wide, “Cwown smeww so pwetty! Bestest smeww, wub daddeh! Cwown am suuu happeh! Wub!” She begins to roll around on her bed, completely oblivious to the fact that she just lost nearly two kilograms in matted fur. She starts spinning in circles to try and see her tail, so before you cause her a heart attack you take a small mirror from the junk pile and set it down in the pen. It’s not much taller than Crown, and plenty wide.
“Look at that,” you say, “such a pretty fluffy! No more grassies and ickies from outside.”
“Wub! Wub! Suuuu pwetty! Fank yu daddeh!”
In an attempt to curb her saccharine nonsense, you put “Good Poopies Part Two” back on and allow her to sit on your lap. It really is funny to you, because only a few minutes in she is totally entranced as if she’s under a spell. So much that you can play with your phone as long as you continue to pet her, she doesn’t even notice.
After what may have been the longest hour of your life in recent months, she finally stirs.
“Huuuu, daddeh? Cwown wan’ wittabawks.” You happily comply, and she waddles over under her own power and lays an incredibly nasty shit. She has her back to you, so you watch just closely enough to ensure your grooming skills were up to the task, silently praying you can keep yourself from retching at the smell. Then, she takes you by surprise. Crown kicks litter over the mess and drags her technicolour butt across the litter. Just like on FluffTv. You give yourself another pat on the back. Either she’s that terrified of getting “wowstest owwies”, or your attempt at classical conditioning is succeeding.
After several attempts to pry yourself away, you finally manage to excuse yourself from your own basement to return to the kitchen. From your phone, you start the ‘Good Poopies’ playlist (all 12 parts) to play from part three. That should keep her occupied for a little while. With a fresh cup of coffee in hand, you decide its time to plan out a saferoom. The house is pretty sizeable, and even with a makeshift armoury that doubles as a place to keep all of your ridiculous projects, a computer room and even a spare bedroom you still have space to spare. With a single room left over, you need something to do with it.
“The back room” as you call it, used to be a small bedroom. It’s nearly perfectly square and in the corner of the house, and has two normal windows. This room was a candidate for renovations because the new central air/heat didn’t have the appropriate duct work. While you fixed that yourself, you never got past putting up new drywall and have since left it unpainted.
Still, you can’t be arsed to do all that yourself. You give a call to the local Fluffmart and inquire about having someone over for an estimate, and they set an appointment for tomorrow at 09:00. And just like that, you are way over budget for the month. Free fluffies aren’t actually for free are they?
The next morning!
With your little bundle of shit and spaghetti sated for the morning, you can turn your attention to the incoming handyman from Fluffmart. He arrives right on time. Getting right to the point, he asks “So buddy, don’t take this the wrong way, but if you wanna turn this room into a torture chamber you should just use the shed. Otherwise, I can waterproof this whole thing for ya so you can hose it out.”
“Hah, no, nothing like that.” You say to the mans surprise. You continue, “Looking for the standard rubber floor that comes twelve inches up the wall. I don’t need any extras like a feeder, but I’d pay extra to tack on the advertised ‘nest area’ for the corner and the in-floor litterbox.”
“No kiddin’ huh? You rescue these things?”
“Nah, I raise and sell as a hobby. It’s hardly serious.” you say, this isn’t true but it seems to keep him from asking more questions. He then goes about taking pictures with his phone, taking notes and measurements, and making marks in pencil on the wall. “Hey friend, you want a beer?”
“Oh? No thanks, not yet at least. If you send your deposit through over the phone while I’m doing this though, I can start right away. At least with the floor.”
Sounds good to you. Your next phone call is Fluffmart customer service once again. With the deposit now charged to your card, the man begins his work with a call to his office. You can hear him talking about orders for material, and confirming he’s staying to get a start on your floor.
If that fluffy down there ends up having Bitch Mare Syndrome, you’re gonna burn the whole house down and start over.