Fluffy the Interpreter

The old couple wasn’t senile, at least not too senile, but they had been married for so long that they no longer spoke to each other. They only talked to the dog.

Most mornings, Walter would walk into the kitchen, sit down for breakfast, pat the poodle on the head and say, “How’s Fluffy?”

     Fluffy couldn’t actually talk so Marge might reply, “Fluffy is quite well today.” If that was not the case, she would say something along the lines of, “Poor Fluffy was up half the night. Someone was snoring even louder than usual.”

      “Fluffy doesn’t mind a little snoring.” Walter was inclined to sneak Fluffy bites of his toast, to make sure the dog was on his side.

      “Fluffy does mind snoring. She can’t sleep a wink when there’s snoring.” Marge had been known to drop bacon on the floor to lure Fluffy over to her side. Since Marge did the cooking, she usually had the better bribes. Over the years, the poodle had gotten quite fat.

      Talking through Fluffy had eliminated most of the fighting from their marriage, but not the bickering. Somehow, that transcended the dog.

Unfortunately, the love hadn’t transcended the dog. When Marge was feeling affectionate, she would lavish her attention on Fluffy, as if to rub it in that Walter didn’t get that love anymore. Not even a little bit. Only Fluffy got kisses and petting, certainly not Walter. And he was old, but he wasn’t dead. Once in a while, he craved kisses and petting. He even had a stash of Viagra hidden in the bathroom in case he needed it, although it was probably expired, thanks to Fluffy.

Fluffy slept in the middle of the bed, between Walter and Marge. He suspected she had trained the poodle to growl and bite if he should stray across the border into her territory. When that happened, Marge had no need to communicate through Fluffy. Fluffy would speak for Marge with sharp yips and sharper nips.

When Fluffy was out in the yard doing her business, Walter was free to talk to himself since Marge couldn’t hear him. She was as deaf as a post without Fluffy. He could say that he was going out on the town to find some loving, and she wouldn’t hear. He could say her face looked as wrinkly as the shirts she wouldn’t iron and she would just keep humming to herself, only louder.

The household chores had become something of a sore point since Marge started neglecting them. Walter had tried to set her straight. He’d made the mistake of saying, “Fluffy, I have no clean underwear or socks. Not one pair. What should we do about that? Walk around naked as a jaybird?”

Marge had growled, “Fluffy, show Walter where the washing machine is, so he can wash his own damn socks and underwear. Time he learned! And if he dares to walk around in his birthday suit, you’ll bite his sausage off, won’t you, Fluffy.”

Not long after Walter learned how to do laundry, he complained about the stack of dirty dishes in the sink, believing that Fluffy was outside and Marge was deaf. Too late, he spotted Fluffy lurking under the kitchen table. Marge crossed her arms and said, “Fluffy, tell Walter he has two perfectly good hands and if he doesn’t wash the dishes himself, I’ll never cook another meal.”

Walter lined the plates up on the floor in a neat row and said, “Fluffy, do you want to lick all the plates clean? I bet you won’t mind doing the dishes.” Marge stood and glared while Fluffy got to work. The poodle did such a great job, the plates sparkled. Walter put them in the cupboard. His back was turned when a dish hit the wall beside his head.

He turned around, ready to duck. Marge simply said, “Bad dog, Fluffy. That wasn’t a nice thing to do. Come here before you cut your paws.”

Walter knew Fluffy hadn’t thrown the bowl at him, Fluffy didn’t even have hands. That had been all Marge. Walter swept up glass, and vowed to himself that he wouldn’t mention household chores ever again, unless he was absolutely certain Fluffy was outside.

With Fluffy keeping the peace between them, Walter and Marge reached their fiftieth wedding anniversary. It wasn’t so much a celebration as a milestone. Marge bought a cake instead of baking one herself. They shared the cake with Fluffy, who liked cake as much as Walter, even if it was bought cake.

The very next morning, when Walter entered the kitchen, he knew something was wrong. There was no breakfast on the table. Marge was crying. She hadn’t cried in years, at least not in front of Walter. But Fluffy wasn’t crying.

“What’s wrong, Fluffy?” he said, looking for the poodle. He spotted Fluffy in her doggy daybed. It didn’t look like she was sleeping. Her tongue was sticking out and her eyes were opened and staring. “Are you dead, Fluffy?” Fluffy didn’t answer him, neither did Marge. He stepped closer and patted the curly white fur. Fluffy didn’t respond. She was dead, as dead as a doornail.

Walter wanted to comfort Marge; he didn’t know how without Fluffy.

He picked up the doggy bed and carried Fluffy out to the rusty, seldom used-sedan. He was too old to be digging graves and Fluffy deserved better than the trashcan, so he drove to the vet’s office.

After Fluffy’s little body had been taken away, Walter sat down in the waiting room. He wasn’t ready to go home. He was scared to face his wife of fifty years without a buffer, or interpreter, or translator, or whatever role Fluffy had filled in their lives. He didn’t think their marriage would survive to fifty-one years if they were left to their own devices.

Walter stayed all morning, talking to some of the other clients and their pets. Some of them were friendly, some weren’t. A terrier tried to bite him. When a little girl and her mother came in with a carrier full of kittens, Walter asked if he could hold one. The girl put a runty gray kitten right in his lap. “We’re looking for good homes for the kittens,” she said, in the earnest way of children. The mother nodded.

“I could give a kitten a good home. My dog just died,” Walter said. If he had a cat, he could go home again, and surely a cat could fill Fluffy’s role.

“I’m sorry about your dog. Would you like a kitten? They’re free,” the mother said.

 The kitten licked his thumb. Walter smiled. “Can I keep this one?”

“Sure.”

After the kitten saw the vet, Walter drove it straight home. He walked in the house, put the kitten in Marge’s lap and said, “Fluffy the cat, this is Marge. She’ll take good care of you.”

“Oh, aren’t you sweet, Fluffy the cat. Did you remind Walter to get some cat food on the way home? He’s very forgetful, you know.” Marge smiled at Walter and stroked the kitten. She looked happy, which made Walter happy. He went to the store to buy cat food.