Time slowed for a moment as you gathered your thoughts and tried to think. Fluffies hadn’t been imported yet… You remember begging your father for a fluffy pony when you were half the age you are now… Instead, he gave you horse riding lessons. Another thing on the list of things you gave up on… you suppose.
Still, that didn’t change what was in front of you now—a smelly, dirt-covered, bio-engineered abomination that hadn’t even had the courage to fight for its home, simply laying there to hide. For now, you’d have to work around it.
Clearing out trash bags, you saw the broken window and the planks of wood used as ramps to get in and out… Did it do that? You never minded such things. You check the toilet, and it seems to work… a little too well. Wait—was it in use?
You had to do a double take.
This little shit somehow made a ramp, broke a window, and has been using the toilet it sleeps under. This is surreal.
You pull out your phone and text Riley again:
You – I know you’re busy but say… remember Fluffies? The shitrats made in America we begged Dad for one??
You put away your phone and continue to clean, even giving the brush its last use before discarding it in the dumpster behind the building. On the way back in, your phone buzzes.
Her – Still in a meeting BUT: it wasn’t us, it was you. I was too old for that show. Why do you ask? About one-fourth of the documents I’ve looked over include the phrase “animal and bio-toy safe.”
Her – Also, do recognize one of the photos: former president of the country way back on some public tour. I guess they’re holding the Sam Maguire Cup between them.
You walked back and noticed it yourself—they were holding a sports cup between them. How did you miss that? Anyway, you cleared away all the trash bags and whatever “nest” this thing made. Still surprised it didn’t smell worse, and the only thing left to do was punt this freeloader out the door and turn this place into a charity shop or something.
You grab the broom, but wondering how smart these things are, you ask:
“You need to leave. I live here now. Get out.”
The fluffy doesn’t seem to respond but begins to shiver, hooves still over its eyes.
“Fluffy, I’m speaking to you. I can see you, and if you don’t leave, I’ll kick you.”
After a few seconds, you hear:
“Fwuffeh sowweh… pwease don’t huwt fwuffy…”
You see it slowly get up and meet your eyes with its own. They are a deep green… a very deep green. That’s creepy.
“Go on… get!” you say, pointing out of the room. The fluffy looks confused, then looks at the broken window—now rampless—and doesn’t leave.
“Fwuffeh need homsie… pwease… fwuffeh be good… nu need toys ow sketties!”
You bend down and look it right in its dumb little face.
“If you don’t leave now, I will kill you.”
This threat was, of course, fake. You wouldn’t have it in your heart to euthanize a dying pet. This thing could talk—and that’s so much worse.
“Fwuffeh nu wan’ fowevew sweepies… fwuffeh gu… fwuffeh sowweh again…”
It proceeds to run past you, look around, then rush to the exit. Stopped by the door, it begins to paw at it with its soft, marshmallowy hooves.
“Polite little shits, aren’t they,” you think to yourself as you walk to the door. You open it to the downpour of rain. The fluffy looks at you with its head down. You’ve seen that look enough in dogs to know what it’s thinking. Just sit there until the rain is over. When I’m back, you’d better be gone.
You point just outside the recessed doorway—a foot-high, five-foot-long stretch of dry space. Enough for the gremlin to wait it out safely.
You lock up and text Dad with a list of things done:
You – Retiling, repainting, new computer parts (if not a new tower), replacement bathroom window (nothing stolen, just has a hole), the toilet, water, and electricity are still working.
Immediately, Dad calls. You hate phone calls—especially how they go with him.
Taking a breath, you answer.
“Evening, Dad. Did you read my text?”
He chuckles.
“You missed a few things, but you got the bulk of it. I know what it’s like in your shoes, Ruth. When I was your age, I had just bought the place. Had to replace half the machines, all the crosses, and redecorate. You have it easy.”
Taking a deep breath through your nose quietly.
“Yes, Dad. I’m aware. I’m wondering how I send this all to you. It needs to be fixed up before it can be used for business.”
A pleased smile, you can hear it over the phone.
“So, you’ve been talking to Riley then. Good head on her shoulders, that one. Yes, it’ll all have to be sorted out—but first thing you need to do is apply for a loan.”
You blink.
“L–Loan? You said I was having it easy. You have the money—you’re on a cruise right now!”
“And what would that teach you? That dear old Dad will always bail you out?
I handed you the keys so you could apply yourself. I want to see you thrive. And to do that, having a healthy relationship with the bank and its lenders is the first step to a successful business.”
“So I should put myself in debt… is what you’re saying,” your sarcasm dripping.
“You need to spend money to make money, kiddo. If you really need help, I could put in a word with a friend. Knowing me will help—once he knows you’re my daughter.”
And then it hit you. That was the trap. If you accepted, any future progress would be because of him—or he’d claim it was.
You balled your fists and said calmly:
“Please… don’t. I can do it myself. Pull up by my own bootstraps. When you’re back, you’ll see what I’ve built for myself.”
You ended the sentence with pride in your voice—unprepared for the next question.
“And what are you building? It better not be an art studio or arcade. It needs to make money, not die on the vine.”
His words, the bull in the china shop of your aspirations. That’s not fair—a bull wouldn’t be doing it on purpose.
Looking down and seeing the little brown creature shivering against the wall, you had an epiphany.
“A day-care… for… dogs. Yeah.”
You say it with all the same surety you had when you first got your septum pierced.
“A day-care for dogs… And why would that work?” he asked, his voice getting bored.
“Easy,” you said, putting on a determined facade. “You know how wealthy the nearby area is. Even purse dogs—family dogs, lap dogs—need to socialize. I already have people interested in the idea.”
“Oh… well, that’s very good, Ruth. That sort of initiative is normally in your sister, but I’m happy to hear she’s rubbing off on you.
Any renovations need to be signed off by me as the landlord, but I’d be happy to see you give this your best shot, Ruth.”
You felt stunned. Was this… encouragement?
“Yeah, Dad. Thanks. I’ll let you know when I start ordering things… I gotta go.”
“Me too—my mojito arrived.”
Without much of an “I love you,” you both hang up.
You stare at the fluffy. She’s packed so tightly into a corner, you think she might clip through the wall.
You pull out your phone and start Googling:
- Fluffies still popular
- Fluffies Ireland
- Fluffy mill Ireland
- Fluffy Europe
- Fluffy law
- Day care
- Dog day care
- Fluffy day care…
You are a goddamn genius.