Start of a series about shifting blame to protect the feelings of people you care about.
Fluffies are manmade animals capable of speech and complex emotions. They are fragile, both physically and psychologically. As a result, owners will often try to avoid giving a fluffy bad news, or forcing it to undergo a traumatic experience.
That’s where I come in.
Need to take your fluffy’s babies away, but don’t want her to “hatechu?” I’ll slip in and take them. Want to scare your son’s companion into shitting in a box, but don’t want it to shit in your shoes? I’ll tan his hide and tell him the only thing I’m afraid of is good poopies. Dignity? I have no dignity. I’m just the Messenger.
First house of the day. I look at the dossier.
Okay. An interesting one. Neat. Looks like the guy they rent from has decided to hike up pet rent since the city established rent controls. Christ. Fucking leech. So now they want to go from two to one. Pretty common. So what’s so interesting?
The one they want to ditch is a pillow. Means the usual “oh they ran away” excuse won’t work. Even when it does, I caution people against using it. They think it’ll make the fluffy redirect their anger towards the missing one, but more often they just refuse to believe it. None of that matters here, though. Apparently the pillow is a beloved family pet and the reason it’s getting the boot is that it’s old and the other one is still a colt. So while I’m definitely trying to fool an adolescent fluffy into thinking its only companion will be happy…
Their eleven year old son is who I’m really there to fool.
On the way up to the door, I still feel I’ve only got the thing partially worked out. If I’m gonna fool the kid I’ll have to fool both fluffies. Usually in cases like this I can depend on the outgoing elderly fluffy to be cooperative and help me sell the gag, even though they know they’re just going “to the shelter.” Seems less cruel that way.
Oh well. Today’s gonna suck.
Owner greets me on the porch. We chit chat, he gives me some basic intel. Fluffy’s name is Marshmallow, he’s a twelve year old white McGonagall pillow, and the colt, Brandon, is clearly off the popular “Badmummah” line. Pillow is…not neutered. Huh. Guess they figured no legs meant no need. Gives me an angle.
I go into the saferoom. Brandon appears to be spinning around chasing his tail, yelling “ciwcwe dancies, ciwcwe dancies” over and over again. Cool, he’s hyper. Always a fucking joy.
The son is over by the litterbox holding Marshmallow. Big poofy fella, and I can see why they love him. He speaks with this big goofy voice, deeper than most fluffies I’ve seen. Like Goofy Dawg if he took a nine ball to the dome. That perfect combo of “dumb as rocks” and “excited to see you” that kids flip for.
“Daddeh Sammy! Daddeh Sammy! Wook! Nyu nice mistuh in howsie!” The kid looked up but was interrupted by the rambunctious young colt. “Nu wowwy daddeh an’ Mashmewwuh, Bwanden wiw sabe ou!” He stomped down as hard as his little hoof pads could, spread into a power stance, and puffed his cheeks.
“GU WAY MUNSTAH, NU WET OU HUWT FAMIWY!”
“I’m not. I’m actually here to help Marshmallow!”
The kid answered this time. "Oh, are you the guy my dad said wanted to buy Marshmallow? Please don’t sir, I know your daughter needs a fluffy, but I love Marshmallow so much! We’ve had him since before I was even born!"
Weeeell fuck. Goddamned customers. Always trying to help. Fucking telling your kid a backstory? Fuck. Gotta improvise.
“Well you see kid, it’s not as simple as that. My daughter has a fluffy already. A beautiful mare named Princess. But Princess is very sad and very lonely. So she needs Marshmallow here to come be her special friend and give her foals.”
The fluffy lit up. “Weawwy? Speciaw fwend fow Mawshy?” He turned excitedly to his daddeh. “Pwease wittwe daddeh? Mawshy awways wan babbehs! awways wan bestes’ famiwy! Wike wittwe daddeh haf! Nao gun be weaw! Nu sweepy pitchews ow nuffin!”
The boy looked conflicted. He clearly loved this fluffy. He didn’t want to let go, but it was so much harder now that his beloved Marshmallow wasn’t begging him to not let anyone take him away. “It otay daddeh.” Another voice. Oh hey, Brandon’s back.
“Bwanden wiww awways be hewe fow daddeh. Nu wowwy. Bwanden wub Mawshy tu, bu Mawshy wanna gu haf babbehs wike Bwanden!” Marshmallow was nodding. “Is twue! Is twue! Pwease, wittwe daddeh! Mawshy wan hab babbehs. Mawshy…” He teared up. “Mawshy wan name bestes babbeh aftew wittwe daddeh…”
Boom. That’s why I try to rope them in. If you can convince the fluffy it’s going somewhere good it’ll sell its friends on that idea easier than anyone. They’re so simple that it’s hard not to follow their logic.
The kid relents. Tears in his eyes, he hands me his pet. Marshmallow is heavy for a fluffy, but he’s been well taken care of. He’s healthy, happy, shit. He could live another two or three years, easy.
Fucking landlords, man.
Marshmallow, clearly drained by his emotional outburst, nuzzles close to me. Brandon and the kid wave goodbye and hug each other as I close the door behind me. I head back to the front door where the dad is standing with my cash. “Ah! I see you’ve got our old pal Marshy ready to go! Thanks for coming on such short notice.” He turns his attention to the fluffy. “I’m gonna miss you, little buddy.” His voice cracks. He’s still emotionally attached to the fluffy.
Good.
“Hey, that’s a nice saferoom. Really well built. Is that soundproofing on the walls?” He smiles the kind of smile I’ve only ever seen on middle class white dads in the suburbs. It’s empty of passion, of joy. It is a gluttons smile, used when one is lording ones material wealth over another. “That’s right! Got it installed when Jack was just a baby. Didn’t want him waking up Marshmallow, or vice versa.” He says, giving Marshmallow a scritch on his head. Marshmallow beams. “Wub ou daddeh, wiww awway wemembew ou!”
“Hey, so when I went in there it seemed like you’d already told your kid some shit. Said I was getting a pet for my daughter? Come on man, my website’s super clear: Don’t give backstory you don’t clear with me. I had to think fast to avoid a meltdown.”
He scoffs. There’s the real man. Not that smile from earlier, and not the sincerity he thinks he’s showing his supposedly beloved pet. His pet who he could have taken to a shelter himself if he’d had the mettle to look it in the eye. Instead he called me. And he paid my minimum rate. That one doesn’t come with dropoff.
Unless you count a dumpster, that is.
“Okay pal, take it easy. It ain’t exactly rocket science. Not like it mattered, you got him! Everyone’s happy!”
Smug prick.
“Yeah, good point.” I lean to the side to verify that the saferoom is closed, then I grip Marshmallow by the scruff of his neck and hold him out in front of me and his former Big Daddeh. Asshole starts to say something but I cut him off. “Hey Marshy! I was lying. Your daddy doesn’t want you anymore. He paid me to trick Little Daddy into letting you go, and now since he only paid me to do that, I’m gonna go take you to my van and kill you.”
It was like a bomb went off.
“NUUUUUUU! SCREEEE! NUUU DADDEH PEASE SABE MAWSHY! SABE MAWSHY! DADDEH HAB MAWSHY BEFOW WITTWE DADDEH! PEASE NU WET MEANIE MUNSTAH HUWT GUD MAWSHY!” I’d already turned and started towards the van, being sure to hold Marshmallow out at my side so he’d shit on their driveway and NOT the lawn.
Dad looks pale as a ghost. Then…well he was still a pale ghost but it was like Boo when Mario looks away. “You little shit! What the fuck is wrong with you? I paid you to-” Fuck this.
"Hey! You paid me to make a problem disappear without alerting your son or remaining fluffy to the nature of your deception. Unless he heard me through your very fancy soundproofing, I think our business is concluded." He tries to say something, but is overcome by the continuing wailing of his pet. A family pet. Based on ages and date of birth, I’d say they probably got Marshmallow to compensate for not having a kid. He’s known Marshmallow longer than his own son.
And he still didn’t pay the extra $20 it would have cost to get the guy to a local no kill shelter. Cheap prick. By the time I reach the van, he’s actually crying. His wife has joined him on the porch. I place Marshmallow in the passenger seat and close the driver’s side door as they hear Marshmallow’s final words to them.
“Hewp! Daddeh say daddeh wub Mawshy! Wai daddeh nu sabe Mawshy! Mummah! Teww wittwe daddeh wun way! Big daddeh am munstah! Big daddeh am scawy munstah! Huuuhuuhuuuuuu!”
I chuckle as I start the engine. He’d have shit in my seat if he had any shit left. Genuinely impressed. All this happened so fast and the last thing he did was try to save his good daddy from the bad one. Noble, considering.
“Huuuhuuuuuuu pwease munstah nu huwt fwuffy. Jus gib fowebba sweepies. Nu pway meanie games wif gud Mawshmawwow…”
I scratch him behind his ears like I’d seen both his daddys do when he needed calming. "Don’t worry bud, I’m not gonna hurt you. I was just mad at your dad for being such a mean jerk." FUCK these things make me talk like an idiot. “You’re old, but you look like you’ve still got some life left in you.” My language is not calming him. I think I might be a little shaken from his exchange with Grill Dad back there.
Gotta be simple. Direct. No flowery language if you want them to understand. Give them the simple facts. Then get purple with your prose, once they understand the broad strokes.
“Okay. I am not going to hurt you or give you…‘forever sleepies.’ I’m not a monster, my name is Jay and I…” Okay, maybe not too direct. “I meet a lot of fluffies in my line of work. Sometimes those fluffies have to come home with me, sometimes they don’t.” Gotta make sure he’s getting it.
“Wiww…wiww Mawshmewwo gu tu nyu howsie?”
“Do you want to? I’m not much of a cook and I don’t have much room, but I can feed you and keep you comfortable. Plus I could use some help talking to fluffies in my care. They’ll go in and out, but you’ll be staying with me for the rest of your life. I know today was hard, but you did good. You left your little daddy and Brandon happy. It’s not your fault your big daddy is am asshole.” He gasps. “Nunu wowd!”
He stays quiet for a few minutes. I let him. He’s been through a lot today and I don’t want to add to it. I’ve got about another hour to drive. This one was just on the edge of my “not getting a motel” range, and I’m glad. If I were sleeping somewhere tonight, I’d be a lot less free to take this dude. Motels don’t allow fluffies for obvious reasons. Imagine being so filthy that a motel won’t permit you. I look over and he’s asleep. Not sure what he’s dreaming about. It’s probably sad. Most of these end with something sad. I’m glad tonight doesn’t have to be.
“Least not for you and me, Marshy.” I say as I scratch behind his ears again. He twitches under my hand, but is soon enough rocked back to tranquility by the rhythmic buffeting of the Oklahoma wind on my van, and the constant hum of the tarmac.
