Kuzia the Mischievous Little Rascal

**Kuzma**

The wedding was over, the guests had gone home, and our daughter had moved in with her new husband. The flat felt empty. After a week of moping in silence, my wife and I decided to get a pet. We wanted something that could fill the daughter-shaped voidsomething to keep our parental instincts alive, like feeding, training, taking it for walks, and cleaning up after it. I also secretly hoped that, unlike our daughter, this creature wouldnt backchat, nick my cigarettes, or raid the fridge at 2 a.m. We hadnt settled on what to get yet, figuring wed decide on the spot.

On Sunday, we headed to the pet market. Just inside the entrance, some cheerful guinea pigs were up for sale. I shot my wife a questioning look.

“Nope,” she vetoed. “Ours was land-based.”

The fish were too quiet, and the parrotscolourful and chattytriggered her allergy to bird fluff. I quite fancied a monkey; its antics reminded me of our daughter during her teenage phase. But my wife threatened to lie down between us like a corpse, so I backed down. After all, Id only known the monkey five minutes, whereas Id grown used to her.

That left dogs and cats. Dogs needed constant walkies, and cats came with their own hasslesI couldnt exactly picture myself flogging kittens outside the Tube station. So, a cat it was.

We spotted our cat straight away. He was sprawled in a plexiglass tank, surrounded by dopey kittens. They kept poking their damp noses into his fluffy belly while he snoozed away. A sign on the tank read: **Kuzma**. The seller spun us a sob story about his tough kittenhoodhow the dog hed grown up with nearly mauled him, leaving the poor sod homeless.

Our chosen one was a handsome grey Persian with a squashed nose. There were no papers to prove it was a breed feature and not the result of a traumatic birth. According to the missing documents, his official name was Kaiser, but he answered to Kuzma just fine. So, we bought him.

The journey home was uneventfulKuzma snuffled quietly under the car seat. But as we reached the front door, my wife, knowing my stance on bodily mutilation, smirked and asked, “You sure hes not neutered?”

I tensed. Not because I have anything against sexual minorities, but a neutered cat just screams Quasimodoa poor soul butchered by humanity. So, I splayed Kuzma out on the hallway floor for an impromptu urological exam. In the dim light, his furry nether regions were invisible, and his plush belly was a mess of tangled fur. Summoning my inner zoophile, I ran a hand over his groin. The cat yowled, but the family jewels seemed intact.

Later that day, our daughter swung by to ransack the fridge. Spotting Kuzma, she abandoned her half-demolished cake and pounced on him. Together, she and her mother stuffed him into the bath, scrubbed him with baby shampoo, swaddled him ininexplicably*my* towel, and blow-dried him.

Once Kuzma looked presentable, my wife started trimming his matted fur while he grumbled. I left them to it and retreated to the kitchen with a beer.

Thenchaos. A bloodcurdling yowl, a crash, and the sound of shattering glass. I put my bottle down and rushed in. My wife sat on the sofa, rocking and howling, her hands crisscrossed with scratches. Scissors and tufts of fur littered the floor.

“What happened?”

She fixed us with a mournful stare and wailed, “His b-b-b-balls!”

“Whose balls?”

“The *cats*!”

“*Where*?”

“G-g-gone!”

Now, Im no vet, but Im fairly sure things dont just *fall off* cats.

Through sobs, we pieced together that while trimming a mat between his legs, Kuzma jerkedand *snip*. With the precision of a drunk surgeon, shed accidentally taken off what she swore were his testicles.

Kuzma, understandably furious, had bolted under the sofa, clawing her hands bloody and smashing a vase on the way. Frankly, if someone did that to *me*, Id bite their head off and trash the flat. I told her as much. She wailed louder.

Armed with a mop, my daughter and I crawled under the sofa. There, in the dustiest corner, glowed the eyes of our newly minted eunuch. He wasnt having any of our sausage-bribed coaxing. As one bloke to anotherI got it.

Eventually, we dragged him out. He looked *rough*wild-eyed, cobweb-bearded, his tail coated in ancient dust. Half an hour with my wife had turned a posh Persian into a hobo castrato.

I cradled the grumpy beast, scratching behind his ears until his tense limbs relaxed. Thenhe *purred*. Loudly. Either he was in shock, or my wife had imagined the whole thing.

“Hes *dying*!” she gasped, tiptoeing closer. “Ill call an ambulance!”

Kuzma cracked one bleary eye, saw her, and tensed up again. I shooed the women away and took him to the kitchen.

Over beers, we bonded. I ranted about living in a house full of women; he purred sympathetically. Later, sprawled on my lap, belly up, he let me checkjust to be sure.

Nothing. No “primary male characteristics.” Not even scars.

Turns out, Kuzma was *Kuzmina*a very pregnant, very fluffy Persian.

We didnt go back to throttle the seller. Shared trauma bonds you.

And Kuzma? Well, shes now called **Mum**. Yesterday, she had four kittens.

The house is full of kids again.