Hello, I'm FuzzButt. Hey, it's not my fault, I didn't pick this name, you know. Mom and Poppy did. But, believe me, it's better
than what they started to name me. I was going to be "D.J." As in Dylan Junior. They thought I acted like him when I was a kitten. The insult! Can you imagine how
embarrassing that would have been? Well, Mom and Poppy started calling me FuzzButt as a nickname because my fur is long and sort of frizzy, especially where
I sit. And every time I sat down, something always came back up with me--leaves, grass, dirt, whatever. So the nickname stuck, and I am officially FuzzButt. I'm
almost 6 years old, or about 38 in human years.
I've had a pretty eventful, although short, life so far. I can't really remember when I was a real little kitten, but Mom and Poppy told me and my brother Jet, that our mother left us under their back deck. Anyway, Mom and Poppy are the only parents we know, and I can't imagine having any others. They are wonderful parents and take real good care of all of us kitties. Back to my story. Jet will tell you about how we came to be adopted, I have enough to tell just about myself.
As soon as the vet (YUK!!) would let them, they took me to get all of my shots, and then they had me spayed. I was not happy with that. And I let them know it, too. We won't go into that--it's not something I am particularly proud of. So, the fur had barely grown back out on my tummy, when I broke one of my hind legs. I think I either have amnesia or am doing some sort of psychological block or something, but I can't remember how it happened. After all, I was only seven months old at the time. It was while Jet and I were still in-and-out kitties. Mom and Poppy had gone away for the weekend, and when they got back, I was not on the carport where I spent most of my time. They really got worried when I didn't come running to get fed. (Jet, the hog, did though.) So they started looking for me. I was down in the woods behind the house, and when I heard Poppy calling for me, I started towards him. I was limping really bad. And boy, was I glad to see them!
Well, this was on a Sunday night. They called the on-call vet, and he met us at the clinic. I could tell he didn't think anything was wrong by looking at me, but when he started feeling my leg, he said, "It's broken." (Mom already knew it was. She's smart.) The doctor took x-rays and Mom helped him. I had to go back the next day to be operated on. They put a pin in my leg, and wrapped my leg up in this awful contraption they called a "splint." It was supposed to stay on for six weeks, but I had had enough of it after only two weeks, so I took it off. Mom and Poppy brought me in the house the night I broke my leg, and I haven't been out since--except to go back to the doctor to have the pin taken out and for my regular check-up and shots (shudder). It didn't take me long to exercise my leg back to normal, and now you could never tell anything was ever wrong.
Well, since then it's been fairly quiet for me. Jet chases me sometimes, but the others don't bother me too much. I think I spooked them with that splint (hehehehe). And that suits me just fine. I like to get up in Poppy's lap when he's at his computer (which is most of the time, according to Mom). He calls me his "Little Sweetheart." I like that. And I love Poppy. I'm the only kitty that gets up in his lap, except Dylan. But he only does it if Poppy is in his recliner. I love Mom, too. Every night, before she gets into bed, she and I have what she calls "quality time." She gets down on "my" rug with me, and rubs me and rubs me. I like that, too. And I love "my" rug. You'll see it under me in my picture. It's a big rug, and I feel safe on it. Usually human feet scare me, but for some reason, when I'm on my rug, I'm not so scared. Do you think maybe that's what I'm trying to block out? Hmmmm. I wonder. Who knows? Anyway, I love this rug, but it's dark, and I'm dark, and Mom was afraid she'd step on me in the dark. So she plugged in a night light so she can see me if she gets up in the middle of the night. Isn't she wonderful?
Mom calls me "Squeaky" because I have a real high voice (sometimes I open my mouth to meow, and nothing comes out), and her "Sweetums". Of course, I get called "Fuzzy" a lot, too. My Grandma can't bring herself to call me FuzzButt. And they have a pretty hard time with it at the vet's, too. I think that's funny. That's my revenge. Mom tells me I'm beautiful, and apparently she's right. I get told that a lot. I guess it's hereditary; my brother Jet is very handsome, too, although we don't look a bit alike. Well, see you later. Can't stay in one place too long, you know.