Read the full series: Part 1, Double Whisker Life and Part 2, Sir Archibald and the Fourth Home Conspiracy
I write to you now not from a sun-drenched windowsill, nor from the blissful embrace of my crocheted basket, nor even from Lorraine’s newest fleece-lined laundry hamper (RIP, your socks).
No.
I write from under the sofa.
Yes—under the sofa, where the dust bunnies speak in whispers and something suspiciously sticky lives near the skirting board. This is where I’ve taken refuge. This is where I am regrouping, nursing my wounds.
For I, Sir Archibald Fluffington III—Fluff of House Biscuit, Emperor of the Side Table Realm, Undisputed Duke of Disdain—have just endured a harrowing, soul-shattering encounter with true evil.
No, not the toddler from next door who once attempted to feed me a crayon.
I speak of her.
Dr Edith Crimble.
Veterinarian.
Wielder of cold instruments and colder stares.
Possibly a lizard in disguise.
This, dear reader, is the story of how I survived the worst day of my life.
It began as all betrayals do: quietly. Subtly. With a box.
Not a joyous Amazon box filled with crinkly brown paper and the occasional toy mouse. No, no.
This was a carrier.
Plastic. Blue. Reeking of bleach and unspoken trauma. I felt its presence long before Lorraine heaved it from the wardrobe. My ears twitched. My whiskers tingled.
Jeremy tried to be casual about it. “Just a check-up, mate.”
Just a check-up. Ha! You absolute clot.
Let me translate:
Thermometers.
Judgement.
Probing.
Dignity—obliterated.
Reader, I ran.
Across the bookcase (bye-bye, family photos). Under the bed (where I growled like a wartime general). Inside the airing cupboard (steamy). Behind the washing machine (claustrophobic, dusty, mildly enlightening).
But they found me. With tuna bribes and squeaky voices and the betrayal of a man I once trusted to scratch my chin and respect my boundaries.
Lorraine used The Voice. You know the one. Sickly sweet. Wobbly with false reassurance.
“Come on, sweetheart. It'll be quick.”
Lies. Deception. Treachery wrapped in pastel cardigans.
I was shoved into the carrier while Jeremy hummed a tune that can only be described as nervous guilt meets indie regret. They slammed the latch shut like criminals burying evidence.
And so, off we went.
The vet’s waiting room is a place of torment. It smells of disinfectant, sorrow, and Labrador breath.
Inside sat a pug in a neck cone, two guinea pigs visibly plotting an uprising, and a parrot who screamed “NO TOUCHING” every seven seconds.
A dog—Kevin, I later learned—attempted to sniff my carrier. I hissed. He cried. We understood each other perfectly.
And then she emerged.
Dr Crimble.
Sensible shoes. Oversized glasses. A name badge that dared to say "Here to help!"
“Ah! Archibald!” she said brightly, as if I hadn’t just been kidnapped and carted into her House of Horrors.
I glared. Coldly. Quietly. Threateningly.
Jeremy cooed at me. “It's just a quick look, pal.”
I meowed once. Loudly. In pure, fluent Disapproval.
A hamster fainted.
The exam room was worse. Cold metal surfaces. Diagrams of internal organs no cat ever wanted to think about. A poster featuring a grinning cat with the caption, “Happy After a Dental Cleaning!”
He was not happy. He was dead inside.
Crimble plucked me from the carrier like I was luggage. Plonked me on the table.
“Let’s have a little look, shall we?”
She poked my ribs. Commented on my weight. Slight weight gain, she said.
Excuse me?
I am not chubby. I am luxuriously plush. Built for winter. Designed for opulence.
She opened my mouth. Called my teeth “charming but suspicious.” Then she reached for the stethoscope.
I stared into her soul.
She stared right back.
And then, reader, then—she reached for The Thermometer.
You know where it goes. I don’t need to say it. We’re civilised mammals. But I will say this:
I. Lost. It.
I twisted. I flailed. I produced noises only heard in horror films and cursed basements. I launched myself from the table in a display of acrobatic terror Cirque du Soleil should have witnessed.
Jeremy tried to hold me. I scratched him. Twice. He deserved it.
“Bit dramatic, this one,” Crimble muttered.
Bit dramatic?
Ma’am, you just threatened the sovereign territory of my bottom.
When the trauma ended—when the thermometer had been removed, the scales lied about my weight, and Crimble had scribbled “anxious disposition” in my file—I waited.
Bided my time.
Jeremy stood by the counter, collecting flea tablets and pretending not to be emotionally shattered. Crimble opened the door for him.
That was my moment.
I bolted.
Down the corridor. Past reception. Over Kevin the Retriever (again). Through the automatic doors like a furry Jason Bourne.
The receptionist shouted, “CODE FLUFF!”
Too late. I was gone.
I hid in the hedge near the car park for twenty-seven minutes.
It gave me time to reflect. To consider who I’d become. The things I’d endured. The hands I’d slapped.
Eventually, Lorraine found me. She crouched, tears in her eyes, holding out a tin of sardines.
I made her beg.
I am not petty. I am a cat. We invented spite.
I allowed myself to be scooped up like a weary war hero returning from the frontlines.
She held me close. Whispered apologies. Jeremy offered me his hoodie like a blanket of remorse.
I said nothing. But I licked my paw and slapped his cheek lightly. Forgiveness is earned, not given.
Back home, I retreated under the sofa. I ignored Dreamies. I refused belly rubs. I rejected affection for a full 72 minutes.
But I plotted.
Oh yes, I plotted.
Later that week, I knocked Lorraine’s essential oil diffuser off the shelf.
I chewed Jeremy’s shoelace while he slept.
I dragged a single sock into the litter tray and buried it with precision.
Justice.
I survived.
The vet did not break me. The thermometer did not define me. Crimble did not win.
Let it be known:
I am Sir Archibald Fluffington III.
Knight of the Knotted Curtain Tie.
Sovereign of Sardines.
Enemy of All Who Wear Surgical Gloves.
Let this tale be a warning to veterinary professionals everywhere:
We remember.
We plan.
We poop next to the tray, not in it.
And someday, when you least expect it…
We return.
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