Kuzia: The Mischievous Adventures of a Playful Little Rascal

So, the wedding was over, the guests had all gone home, and our daughter had moved in with her husband. The flat felt empty. After a week of moping around in silence, me and the missus decided to get a pet. We wanted something that could fill the void our daughter leftsomething to keep our parental instincts sharp, you know? Feeding, training, taking it for walks, cleaning up after it And, if Im honest, I was hoping this one wouldnt backchat, nick my cigarettes, or raid the fridge at 2 a.m. like she used to. We hadnt settled on what to get yet, thoughfigured wed decide when we got there.

That Sunday, we headed to the pet market. Just inside the entrance, there were these cute little guinea pigs for sale. I gave the wife a questioning look.

“Nope,” she said flatly. “Ours was land-based.”

The fish were too quiet, and the parrotscolourful and chatty as they weremade her sneeze like a mad thing because of the feathers. I quite fancied a monkey; its antics reminded me of our daughter during her teenage years. But the missus threatened to lie down between us like a dead body if I even considered it, so I backed off. Fair enoughId only known the monkey for five minutes, but I was used to her.

That left dogs and cats. Dogs need constant walking, and cats are a hassleI couldnt see myself flogging kittens outside the Tube station. So, a cat it was.

We knew *our* cat the second we saw him. He was sprawled in a plexiglass tank, surrounded by dopey little kittens nudging his fluffy belly with their damp noses. He was fast asleep. A sign on the tank read: “Muffin.” The seller spun us this sob story about his rough kittenhoodhow a dog hed grown up with nearly mauled him, and now the poor thing had nowhere to live.

Looks-wise, he was a proper pedigreed Persian, this gorgeous grey fluffball. But there were no papers to prove his squashed nose was a breed trait and not, say, the result of a dodgy birth. According to those *missing* papers, his official name was “Reginald,” but he answered to Muffin just fine. So we bought him.

The drive home was uneventfulMuffin just snuffled quietly under the seat. But as we got to the front door, the wife, knowing how I feel about unnecessary surgery, smirked and asked, “You *sure* hes not neutered?”

I stiffened. Not because Ive got anything against, you know, *alternative lifestyles*, but a neutered cat just reminds me of Quasimodomutilated by humans for no good reason. So I flopped Muffin onto the stairwell and gave him a quick once-over. In the dim light, his furry bits were hard to make out, and his belly was one big matted mess. I tried to summon my inner zoophile and ran a hand over his nether regions. He yowled, but from what I could tell, everything was present and correct.

Later that day, our daughter swung by to raid the fridge. The second she saw Muffin, she abandoned the half-eaten cake and pounced on him. She and her mum bundled him into the bath, scrubbed him with baby shampoo, swaddled him in a towel (mine, for some reason), and blow-dried him.

Once he was looking presentable, the wife started combing out his mats while he grumbled under his breath. I left them to it and cracked open a beer in the kitchen.

Then*bang*the peace shattered. A bloodcurdling yowl, the smash of glass, and a wail. I put the bottle down and went to investigate. The missus was on the sofa, rocking back and forth, her hands covered in deep, bloody scratches. Scissors and tufts of fur littered the floor. Me and the daughter crowded around her.

“What happened?”

She looked up with these tragic eyes and wailed, “The b-b-b-balls!”

“What balls?”

“Theyre g-g-gone!”

“Whose balls?”

“The *cats*!”

Now, Im no vet, but Im pretty sure those dont just *fall off*. Especially not on cats.

Between sobs, we triedand failedto figure out what had gone wrong. Im a gentle soul, so obviously, my first instinct was to strangle her. Nothing makes me want to throttle a woman more than hysterical cryingpurely out of mercy, mind you. Like putting down a wounded soldier to spare everyone the agony.

Finally, she unclenched her fists. On her bloody, tear-slick palms were two fluffy little clumps, their grey fur speckled with red. Turned out, while she was trimming the mats between his legs, he jerked. The scissors, already aimed at a knot, snipped what was underneath. And according to her, that was *definitely* his balls.

Through the snot and tears, we gathered that Muffin had shrieked, bolted under the sofa (clawing her to ribbons on the way), and knocked over a vase. Frankly, if someone did that to *me*, Id have bitten their head off and wrecked the place. I told her as much. She howled louder.

Armed with a mop, me and the daughter hit the deck. Under the sofa, in the dustiest corner, two amber eyes glowed. Muffin was growling like a diesel engine. No amount of coaxing or sausage bribes worked. And as one bloke to another, I got it.

The daughter prodded him toward the edge with the mop while I tried grabbing whatever limb stuck out. Clever little sod, he fought like a demonhissing, batting at the handle, leaving gouges in the wood. Finally, he latched onto the mop with his claws and let us drag him out.

*Christ*, the state of him. Wild yellow eyes, cobweb beard, tail caked in decades of dust. Half an hour with my wife, and hed gone from posh Persian to mangy stray. It was almost poetic.

I scooped him up, scratching behind his ears till he relaxed. Slowly, he started purringa rough, scratchy sound. Odd, really. Youd have to be a right idiot to purr *after* losing your crown jewels.

The wife hovered, wringing her hands. “Is he okay? He sounds wheezy! Should I call an ambulance?”

Muffin cracked one bleary eye, saw her, and went rigid. Looked like he *was* about to start wheezing. I shooed them out and took him to the kitchen.

We had a beer together, decompressing. I ranted about the trials of being the only bloke in a house full of women; he purred in sympathy. Soon, he was sprawled on my lap, belly up, rumbling away. Feeling bold, I checked under the hoodjust to make sure the wife hadnt wrecked his future prospects.

Turns out, she hadnt. Because there was *nothing to wreck*.

What shed chopped off? Just clumps of matted fur with a bit of blood from the scratches. The “balls” were a complete fiction. Sitting on my lap was a *girl*a chunky, very pregnant Persian.

We didnt go back to throttle the seller. Shared trauma bonds you. And we dont call her Muffin anymore.

Yesterday, Daisy had four fluffy kittens.

Now weve got kids in the house again.