Dear Awesome Advice Central,
I’m a loving sister, you need to know that first and foremost. I adore my younger sister, and think she’s the bee’s knees, Grade A #1, Top of the Heap, Queen of All She Surveys. Et cetera.
The fact that I love her makes what I’m about to tell you seem almost impossible to believe: I want to kill her cat.
I need your help: how do I do this? And more important, because I don’t want to cause young S’tarrli’te any emotional stress, how do I ensure she never finds out Mr. Fluffles died at my hand?
Perhaps you want to know why I need Mr. Fluffles dead. It’s simple, really.
The Evil Mr. Fluffles.
He has ruined my life. He and I have never really gotten along all that well. He regularly bites my ankles, dive-bombs me when I walk past the kitchen cabinet where he nests, and hisses at me with such ferocity that I actually lock my bedroom door at night, to ensure he doesn’t maul me in my sleep.
However, the last straw was drawn yesterday, when I arrived home in a particularly happy, gay mood. I’d recently become engaged to my darling Algernon Himmel Pants (I call him Algie P for short) the day before and I was admiring my new ring in the afternoon light.
I’d shown it to S’tarrli’te and the rest of the family and decided, after we’d imbibed two bottles of champagne to celebrate my good luck in snagging Algie P, that I should go have a soothing bath to calm my nerves. After all, it’s not every day a girl gets engaged to the man of her dreams!
Mr Fluffles loves going into the bath—his favourite spot is the sink, where he enjoys rolling around, twisting and turning like a fish in water. He looks almost…cute when he does this, so I didn’t really mind having his company when I bathed.
Down the hatch, Mr. Fluffles!
Worried that I’d drop or lose the ring in the bath, I removed it and placed it safely inside the cabinet over the sink. While reclining in the suds and just as I was attempting to shave my legs, I saw Mr Fluffles (or Mr Soon-To-Be-Snuffed, as I now refer to him) open the cabinet with his evil feline paws, pull my beloved 24-carat ring towards him, lean over, and SWALLOW it!
Hearing my amazing and undignified protest, he turned his cadaverous head in my direction and smiled at me. Yes, sisters of advice, he actually smiled.
I struggled and slipped in my efforts to remove myself from the tub. I reached for that wretched cat, but he darted out of my grasp. I sprawled on the bathroom floor, screaming to mother and father to “get the hell in here, pronto!”
By the time I’d righted myself and they’d arrived, Mr Fluffles was long gone. He skedaddled out of the house, and stayed away for 2 whole days before returning.
In that time, the ring had undoubtedly been, how shall I put this, ejected from his body, and hasn’t been seen since.
S’tarrli’te is useless. She refuses to recompense me for my loss. Mother and Father snort and get all giggly each time I demand to know what they’re going to do to help me. I don’t dare tell Algie P about this, as he told me to be careful with the ring, for which he’d paid big bucks.
“So what’re you going to do, give me an enema?”
Now I figure I might as well forget about marrying Algie P, as he’ll likely dump me once he realises I haven’t really sent the ring out for cleaning.
As much as I’m annoyed with my sister, I can’t kill her without serious consequences, and I certainly can’t harm my parents. That leaves the dreaded, malicious Mr Fluffles.
He’s ruined my life. Help me ruin his as well.
Dear M’O…m’Oo….Ms. Honeyblossom,
We believe we have an alternate suggestion, which would involve no bloodshed, either human or feline.
Because honestly, every time we spell out one of our deliciously fiendish plans to send someone to the Great Litter Box in the Sky, we get hundreds, nay, thousands of blistering emails threatening us with charges of animal cruelty. Some people really have no sense of humour.
All right, down to brass tacks.
We’re sure it hasn’t escaped your notice that you and your sister are in possession of rather…odd names. Names that must have caused you a certain amount of emotional trauma during your formative years, and which might serve as impediments to your progress as you enter the adult world? Come on, didn’t the other children laugh and call you names? Didn’t your teachers snicker when they read the roll call?
Let’s face it: how many CEOs do you know named M’o’o….moo’…whatever your name is?
And surely your parents must have had some say in this matter, correct?
So we’d suggest, in lieu of killing poor Mr. Fluffles, you sue your parents for pain and suffering, and use the money to buy yourself a nice new ring to show Algae Pee or whatever his name is.
As for the cat, we’re quite certain he suffered the agonies of the damned during the expulsion of the ring. He’s suffered enough, in our opinion. Not that it’ll stop him from ingesting other articles of jewellery—cats are notoriously dim about such things. So from now on, keep a better eye on the bright’n’shinies, all right?
Now, please go away. It’s nap time chez Awesome Advice.
Awesome Advice Central