Freeing Furby

I smile as I make the final click. There, my cat now had his own Facebook page: Furby Phillips, with the cutest photo of him, with his black fur bleached a little by the summer sun last year. My girlfriends are going to love it.

I’m sitting back admiring my work and quirky sense of humour when there is a ping, and Furby already has a friend request – just like that! I’m amazed this can happen so quickly. It says it’s from Feline09, with a picture of a cat, it’s face largely covered by dark glasses.  I laugh and click to accept it, which reveals an underlying text message:

‘Fite. Late. No prissoners.’

I am shocked – at the spelling for one thing, but at who would send such a disturbing message? I look down at Furby lying on his cushion, licking his paw. I am deciding how to reply, if at all, when another friend request pops up. It’s another cat, this time wearing a balaclava. I accept it.

‘Yor ded meet’

I’m trying to work out whether ‘meet’ is intended as an invitation or as dead animal tissue, when another friend request comes up.  I think it’s from a canary. It certainly looks like Joey, Tina and Josh’s pet from number 17, but I can’t be sure as his eyes have been pixelated. The name Jailbird69 offers no more clues other than someone’s warped sense of humour.

Over the next half hour, a dozen more requests come, mainly cats – all heavily disguised, but also a couple of dogs making heinous threats against him and his kittens, past and future. My poor Furby, sitting there, rubbing the back of his ear with this paw in that irresistible way of his, oblivious to all this hatred.

I’m scared to let him out and move silently into the kitchen, bending to quietly turn the dial on the catflap to its ‘lock’ position..

“What do you think you are doing? Bitch.”

Blast, it’s Furby – he must have sensed what I’m up to and is standing watching me from the doorway.

“It’s for your own protection” I offer, knowing that he’s not going to be impressed.He isn’t.

“You remember what happened last time you pulled this kind of stunt don’t you.”

“The cushions.  No Furby. Please -not the cushions”.

“Then you set the bastard flap to ‘open’ or it will be cushion time again. Get it?”

Reluctantly I obey – I have no real option, do I. Furby slinks arrogantly across to the catflap.

“Wh-Where are you going?”

“You don’t want to know” he answers without even looking at me.

“Furby!” I call in despair, but in a leap and a moment he is gone, the clu-clink noise of the flap closing behind him. And that’s it.

I know he takes no notice of me and I hate it when he leaves me this way.

Later on and I’m still worried about him when a thought crosses my mind. That time that I came down that morning and found my hair extensions and empty lipstick by the computer – perhaps it wasn’t my ex after all.


I hope you enjoy the story. If you have 2 mins spare, add a comment to let me know what you think, if you have 5 minutes, add that comment then find another story on my site – there’s plenty to try.

Cheers!

Martin

 

2014 02

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