There I was minding my own business having a nap in the sitting-room when I heard someone say, ‘What a gorgeous little floof!’
I opened one eye and there looking down at me was a woman who, it transpired, was a work colleague of the old woman's.
I didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. I glanced around the room. I saw no floof. Then I realised she was staring at ME. ME. I am NOT a floof. I am not cute or fluffy. In no way could I be described as a floof. Why would anyone call me a floof? Why?
Her hand came towards me, presumably to stroke my floofiness. I unleashed my claws. The old woman saw the claws and the look in my eye and swooped like an eagle who’d spotted a mouse and swept me up.
‘She’s not very good with strangers,’ she said nervously. ‘I’ll put her in the kitchen.’
She walked out with me, holding my two front paws as I wriggled to escape. She got to the kitchen and put me down. Luckily for her I saw her reach into the fridge where she found some left over beef from last night’s tea.
‘Here you are Toffee. Now behave yourself, please.’
I’ll behave myself as long as it takes me to eat this beef. But when I returned to the sitting-room, the door was firmly closed. Obviously my "floofiness" had suddenly lost its appeal.
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