Sticky Situations: My Fur, My Rules

 It started like any other June day — sunbeam on the balcony, birds gossiping in the trees, Kitka pretending to be a philosopher in a flowerpot.

Peace. Serenity. Dignity.

And then… it happened.

Mom approached with the object.
The sticky beast.
The cylindrical horror.
The lint roller.

I knew something was wrong. Her voice was too sweet. Her smile? Suspiciously wide.
“Gryzkaaa, come here, sweetie! Let me just get some fuzz off you…”

Ma’am. I am fuzz. That is my identity.

I ran under the table. She followed. I slithered behind the couch. She lunged.
It was war.

When she finally caught me, I screamed — the ancient battle cry of our ancestors:
"MRRRRREEEOOOWWWWWW!"

She rolled.
I twisted.
She rolled again.
I bit the lint roller.
It bit back.

We grappled. We struggled. I hissed like a tea kettle possessed.
Kitka peeked around the corner with popcorn. Spurka pretended to film it for YouTube.

Finally, I escaped, floofed beyond recognition. My fur now held the static charge of an angry thundercloud.
But I had won.

The lint roller lay on the floor — chewed. Defeated. Slightly hairy.

Mom looked at me, hair sticking out at heroic angles, and whispered, “You look like you were hit by a blow dryer in a tornado.”

I call it couture.

So yes, I am fluffier than ever.
Yes, I lost some dignity.
But I gained legend status.

The Great June Lint Roller Massacre shall be remembered.

Forever dramatic,
Gryzka, Survivor of Stickiness,