Fluffy was my favorite cat in the whole wide world. No cat purred like Fluffy, and she was always nice and snuggly. If you wanted someone to warm up your lap, Fluffy was it. If you wanted someone to lick you, Fluffy was it. If you wanted a furry little creature to kick around whenever you wanted, well, you get the idea. Anyway, Fluffy was my favorite cat for two months, and we never had a cat again.

It all started when my dad was invited on a golfing trip for his company. When his boss, Mr. Philanthropy, called he asked, “Hello, is Mr. Davis there?”

“Yes, he’s in the basement.”

“Can I please speak with him.”

“Well, he’s busy polishing his guns,” I replied stoically.

“Oh, well… you know I’m not gonna murder you.”

“Sure,” I winked.

“Um, okay. Well, tell him to call me back.” What a creep! Needless to say, I forgot to tell Daddy about the phone call.

The next day, my dad came home and said that he had been invited to golf with the executives. He mentioned casually that he should have received a message from a certain someone, but the insidiousness of that statement was lost on me, being 40 years his junior.

That evening, my dad took me to the Sports Chalet to buy some golf clubs. Like most children, I had no concept of money, just that I figured if he was willing to spend thousands of dollars on himself, he could have at least bought me a trampoline for $99.99. My dad’s selfish like that, you know. I suppose he was treating himself, since my mom was away on a job-trip.

When we came home, I went to my room as usual and signed on the internet, happily blasting the heads off of people I knew from school. It was pretty loud, so I didn’t hear what happened downstairs. So you can imagine my surprise when my dad crashed into my room, yelping.

“Ohmygohddecutitdad”

“What?”

“Shihurmuddagannuquillmeh”

“Dad!?”

“Ohfukme!”

“What happened?”

My dad then left the room as suddenly as he had entered. Again, a lot of things were lost on me at that age, so I didn’t have the critical thinking skills to piece together the puzzle. Instead, I had to walk downstairs after I had slaughtered a couple more friends in 3D-realistic goodness.

When I entered the kitchen, I found that my dad had decided to polish his clubs: only he hadn’t. He was cleaning off of them the blood stains of my cat Fluffy. And surrounding him were little splatters and tufts of fur that were supposed to be put together to make my favorite cat in the whole wide world.

“What the hell!?” I screamed at him.

“Fluffy is dead. I know, it’s bad enough.”

“WHAT THE HELL!?” I screamed again, for emphasis.

“Watch your mouth!”

“Oh my freaking God! I'm seriously gonna kill you!”

“Sure, son,” he replied half-heartedly.

That conversation ended well, as you can imagine. I figured out later that my dad had been practicing his swing, as dads are obliged to do once they purchase some golf clubs, when in the middle of a swing Fluffy ran in front of him and got hit in the head.
In retrospect, that seems quite forgivable. But you can only beat yourself up for so long. That’s why I helped.

The next day, I had to call my mom.

“Hello?”

“Hi, mom, it’s Danny.”

“Honey, this isn’t a good—oh!—time.”

“Um... Fluffy died yesterday.”

“Oh… that’s terrible.”

“Dad killed her.”

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I’m sure he’s sorry, too. Can I talk to him?”

“Sure.”

THE END (just so you know)

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