{"id":27411,"date":"2026-04-07T20:56:56","date_gmt":"2026-04-08T00:56:56","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/?p=27411"},"modified":"2026-04-07T20:56:58","modified_gmt":"2026-04-08T00:56:58","slug":"theodore-sturgeon-fluffy","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/short-stories\/theodore-sturgeon-fluffy\/27411\/","title":{"rendered":"Theodore Sturgeon: Fluffy"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Synopsis:<\/strong> \u201cFluffy\u201d is a short story by Theodore Sturgeon, published in Weird Tales<\/em> in March 1947. Ransome, a regular guest at social gatherings thanks to his talent for telling anecdotes, spends the weekend at the home of Mrs. Benedetto, an eccentric widow who is devoted to her enormous cat, Fluffy. Fascinated by his hostess\u2019s devotion and amused by the animal\u2019s indifference, Ransome amuses himself by reflecting on the nature of cats. However, during the night, a strange incident in the guest room will change the course of his stay.<\/p>\n\n\n

\n
\n
\"Theodore<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

Fluffy<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Theodore Sturgeo
(Full story)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ransome lay in the dark and smiled to himself, thinking about his hostess. Ransome was always in demand as a house guest, purely because of his phenomenal abilities as a raconteur. Said abilities were entirely due to his being so often a house guest, for it was the terse beauty of his word pictures of people and their opinions of people that made him the figure he was. And all those clipped ironies had to do with the people he had met last weekend. Staying a while at the Joneses, he could quietly insinuate the most scandalously hilarious things about the Joneses when he weekended with the Browns the following fortnight. You think Mr. and Mrs. Jones resented that? Ah, no. You should hear the dirt on the Browns! And so it went, a two-dimensional spiral on the social plane.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This wasn\u2019t the Joneses or the Browns, though. This was Mrs. Benedetto\u2019s m\u00e9nage; and to Ransome\u2019s somewhat jaded sense of humor, the widow Benedetto was a godsend. She lived in a world of her own, which was apparently set about with quasi-important ancestors and relatives exactly as her living room was cluttered up with perfectly unmentionable examples of Victorian rococo.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mrs. Benedetto did not live alone. Far from it. Her very life, to paraphrase the lady herself, was wound about, was caught up in, was owned by and dedicated to her baby. Her baby was her beloved, her little beauty, her too darling my dear, and\u2014so help me\u2014her boobly wutsi-wutsikins. In himself he was quite a character. He answered to the name of Bubbles, which was inaccurate and offended his dignity. He had been christened Fluffy, but you know how it is with nicknames. He was large and he was sleek, that paragon among animals, a chastened alley-rabbit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Wonderful things, cats. A cat is the only animal which can live like a parasite and maintain to the utmost its ability to take care of itself. You\u2019ve heard of little lost dogs, but you never heard of a lost cat. Cats don\u2019t get lost, because cats don\u2019t belong anywhere. You wouldn\u2019t get Mrs. Benedetto to believe that. Mrs. Benedetto never thought of putting Fluffy\u2019s devotion to the test by declaring a ten-day moratorium on the canned salmon. If she had, she would have uncovered a sense of honor comparable with that of a bedbug.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Knowing this\u2014Ransome pardoned himself the pun\u2014categorically, Ransome found himself vastly amused. Mrs. Benedetto\u2019s ministrations to the phlegmatic Fluffy were positively orgiastic. As he thought of it in detail, he began to feel that perhaps, after all, Fluffy was something of a feline phenomenon. A cat\u2019s ears are sensitive organs; any living being that could abide Mrs. Benedetto\u2019s constant flow of conversation from dawn till dark, and then hear it subside in sleep only to be replaced by a nightshift of resounding snores; well, that was<\/em> phenomenal. And Fluffy had stood it for four years. Cats are not renowned for their patience. They have, however, a very fine sense of values. Fluffy was getting something out of it\u2014worth considerably more to him than the discomforts he endured, too, for no cat likes to break even.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He lay still, marvelling at the carrying power of the widow\u2019s snores. He knew little of the late Mr. Benedetto, but he gathered now that he had been either a man of saintly patience, a masochist or a deaf-mute. A noise like that from just one stringy throat must be an impossibility, and yet, there it was. Ransome liked to imagine that the woman had calluses on her palate and tonsils, grown there from her conversation, and it was these rasping together that produced the curious dry-leather quality of her snores. He tucked the idea away for future reference. He might use it next weekend. The snores were hardly the gentlest of lullabies, but any sound is soothing if it is repeated often enough.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There is an old story about a lighthouse tender whose lighthouse was equipped with an automatic cannon which fired every fifteen minutes, day and night. One night, when the old man was asleep, the gun failed to go off. Three seconds after its stated time, the old fellow was out of his bed and flailing around the room, shouting, \u201cWhat was that?\u201d And so it was with Ransome.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He couldn\u2019t tell whether it was an hour after he had fallen asleep, or whether he had not fallen asleep at all. But he found himself sitting on the edge of the bed, wide awake, straining every nerve for the source of the\u2014what was it?\u2014sound?\u2014that had awakened him. The old house was as quiet as a city morgue after closing time, and he could see nothing in the tall, dark guest room but the moon-silvered windows and the thick blacknesses that were drapes. Any old damn thing might be hiding behind those drapes, he thought comfortingly. He edged himself back on the bed and quickly snatched his feet off the floor. Not that anything was under the bed, but still\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A white object puffed along the floor, through the moonbeams, toward him. He made no sound, but tensed himself, ready to attack or defend, dodge or retreat. Ransome was by no means an admirable character, but he owed his reputation, and therefore his existence, to this particular trait, the ability to poise himself, invulnerable to surprise. Try arguing with a man like that sometime.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The white object paused to stare at him out of its yellow-green eyes. It was only Fluffy\u2014Fluffy looking casual and easy-going and not at all in a mood to frighten people. In fact he looked up at Ransome\u2019s gradually relaxing bulk and raised a long-haired, quizzical eyebrow, as if he rather enjoyed the man\u2019s discomfiture.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ransome withstood the cat\u2019s gaze with suavity, and stretched himself out on the bed with every bit of Fluffy\u2019s own easy grace. \u201cWell,\u201d he said amusedly, \u201cyou gave me a jolt! Weren\u2019t you taught to knock before you entered a gentleman\u2019s boudoir?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Fluffy raised a velvet paw and touched it pinkly with his tongue. \u201cDo you take me for a barbarian?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ransome\u2019s lids seemed to get heavy, the only sign he ever gave of being taken aback. He didn\u2019t believe for a moment that the cat had really spoken, but there was something about the voice he had heard that was more than a little familiar. This was, of course, someone\u2019s idea of a joke.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Good God\u2014it had to be a joke!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Well, he had to hear that voice again before he could place it. \u201cYou didn\u2019t say anything of course,\u201d he told the cat, \u201cbut if you did, what was it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou heard me the first time,\u201d said the cat, and jumped up on the foot of his bed. Ransome inched back from the animal. \u201cYes,\u201d he said, \u201cI\u2014thought I did.\u201d Where on earth had he heard that voice before? \u201cYou know,\u201d he said, with an attempt at jocularity, \u201cyou should, under these circumstances, have written me a note before you knocked.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI refuse to be burdened with the so-called social amenities,\u201d said Fluffy. His coat was spotlessly clean, and he looked like an advertising photograph for eiderdown, but he began to wash carefully. \u201cI don\u2019t like you, Ransome.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThanks,\u201d chuckled Ransome, surprised. \u201cI don\u2019t like you either.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy?\u201d asked Fluffy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ransome told himself silently that he was damned. He had recognized the cat\u2019s voice, and it was a credit to his powers of observation that he had. It was his own voice. He held tight to a mind that would begin to reel on slight provocation, and, as usual when bemused, he flung out a smoke screen of his own variety of glib chatter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cReasons for not liking you,\u201d he said, \u201care legion. They are all included in the one phrase\u2014\u2018You are a cat!\u2019 \u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI have heard you say that at least twice before,\u201d said Fluffy, \u201cexcept that you have now substituted \u2018cat\u2019 for \u2018woman.\u2019 \u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYour attitude is offensive. Is any given truth any the less true for having been uttered more than once?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo,\u201d said the cat with equanimity. \u201cBut it is just that much more clich\u00e9d.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ransome laughed. \u201cQuite aside from the fact that you can talk, I find you most refreshing. No one has ever criticized my particular variety of repartee before.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo one was ever wise to you before,\u201d said the cat. \u201cWhy don\u2019t you like cats?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A question like that was, to Ransome, the pressing of a button which released ordered phrases. \u201cCats,\u201d he said oratorically, \u201care without doubt the most self-centered, ungrateful, hypocritical creatures on this or any other earth. Spawned from a m\u00e9salliance between Lilith and Satan\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Fluffy\u2019s eyes widened. \u201cAh! An antiquarian!\u201d he whispered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2014they have the worst traits of both. Their best qualities are their beauty of form and of motion, and even these breathe evil. Women are the ficklest of bipeds, but few women are as fickle as, by nature, any cat is. Cats are not true. They are impossibilities, as perfection is impossible. No other living creature moves with utterly perfect grace. Only the dead can so perfectly relax. And nothing\u2014simply nothing at all\u2014transcends a cat\u2019s incomparable insincerity.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Fluffy purred.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPussy! Sit-by-the-fire and sing!\u201d spat Ransome. \u201cSmiling up all toadying and yellow-eyed at the bearers of liver and salmon and catnip! Soft little puffball, bundle of joy, playing with a ball on a string; making children clap their soft hands to see you, while your mean little brain is viciously alight with the pictures your play calls up for you. Bite it to make it bleed; hold it till it all but throttles; lay it down and step about it daintily; prod it with a gentle silken paw until it moves again, and then pounce. Clasp it in your talons then, lift it, roll over with it, sink your cruel teeth into it while you pump out its guts with your hind feet. Ball on a string! Play-actor!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Fluffy yawned. \u201cTo quote you, that is the prettiest piece of emotional claptrap that these old ears have ever heard. A triumph in studied spontaneity. A symphony in cynicism. A poem in perception. The unqualified\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ransome grunted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He deeply resented this flamboyant theft of all his pet phrases, but his lip twitched nevertheless. The cat was indeed an observant animal.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2014epitome of understatement,\u201d Fluffy finished smoothly. \u201cTo listen to you, one would think that you would like to slaughter earth\u2019s felinity.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI would,\u201d gritted Ransome.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt would be a favor to us,\u201d said the cat. \u201cWe would keep ourselves vastly amused, eluding you and laughing at the effort it cost you. Humans lack imagination.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSuperior creature,\u201d said Ransome ironically, \u201cwhy don\u2019t you do away with the human race, if you find us a bore?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou think we couldn\u2019t?\u201d responded Fluffy. \u201cWe can outthink, outrun, and outbreed your kind. But why should we? As long as you act as you have for these last few thousand years, feeding us, sheltering us and asking nothing from us but our presence for purposes of admiration\u2014why then, you may remain here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ransome guffawed. \u201cNice of you! But listen\u2014stop your bland discussion of the abstract and tell me some things I want to know. How can you talk, and why did you pick me to talk to?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Fluffy settled himself. \u201cI shall answer the question socratically. Socrates was a Greek, and so I shall begin with your last questions. What do you do for a living?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy I\u2014I have some investments and a small capital, and the interest\u2014\u201d Ransome stopped, for the first time fumbling for words. Fluffy was nodding knowingly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAll right, all right. Come clean. You can speak freely.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ransome grinned. \u201cWell, if you must know\u2014and you seem to\u2014I am a practically permanent house guest. I have a considerable fund of stories and a flair for telling them; I look presentable and act as if I were a gentleman. I negotiate, at times, small loans\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA loan,\u201d said Fluffy authoritatively, \u201cis something one intends to repay.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe\u2019ll call them loans,\u201d said Ransome airily. \u201cAlso, at one time and another, I exact a reasonable fee for certain services rendered\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBlackmail,\u201d said the cat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDon\u2019t be crude. All in all, I find life a comfortable and engrossing thing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cQ.E.D.,\u201d said Fluffy triumphantly. \u201cYou make your living being scintillant, beautiful to look at. So do I. You help nobody but yourself; you help yourself to anything you want. So do I. No one likes you except those you bleed; everyone admires and envies you. So with me. Get the point?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI think so. Cat, you draw a mean parallel. In other words, you consider my behavior catlike.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPrecisely,\u201d said Fluffy through his whiskers. \u201cAnd that is both why and how I can talk with you. You\u2019re so close to the feline in everything you do and think; your whole basic philosophy is that of a cat. You have a feline aura about you so intense that it contacts mine; hence we find each other intelligible.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t understand that,\u201d said Ransome.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNeither do I,\u201d returned Fluffy. \u201cBut there it is. Do you like Mrs. Benedetto?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo!\u201d said Ransome immediately and with considerable emphasis. \u201cShe is absolutely insufferable. She bores me. She irritates me. She is the only woman in the world who can do both those things to me at the same time. She talks too much. She reads too little. She thinks not at all. Her mind is hysterically hidebound. She has a face like the cover of a book that no one has ever wanted to read. She is built like a pinch-type whiskey bottle that never had any whiskey in it. Her voice is monotonous and unmusical. Her education was insufficient. Her family background is mediocre, she can\u2019t cook, and she doesn\u2019t brush her teeth often enough.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy, my,\u201d said the cat, raising both paws in surprise. \u201cI detect a ring of sincerity in all that. It pleases me. That is exactly the way I have felt for some years. I have never found fault with her cooking, though; she buys special food for me. I am tired of it. I am tired of her. I am tired of her to an almost unbelievable extent. Almost as much as I hate you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMe?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOf course. You\u2019re an imitation. You\u2019re a phony. Your birth is against you, Ransome. No animal that sweats and shaves, that opens doors for women, that dresses itself in equally phony imitations of the skins of animals, can achieve the status of a cat. You are presumptuous.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019re not?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI am different. I am a cat, and have a right to do as I please. I disliked you so intensely when I saw you this evening that I made up my mind to kill you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy didn\u2019t you? Why\u2014don\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI couldn\u2019t,\u201d said the cat coolly. \u201cNot when you sleep like a cat \u2026 no, I thought of something far more amusing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh yes.\u201d Fluffy stretched out a foreleg, extended his claws. Ransome noticed subconsciously how long and strong they seemed. The moon had gone its way, and the room was filling with slate-gray light.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat woke you,\u201d said the cat, leaping to the windowsill, \u201cjust before I came in?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d said Ransome. \u201cSome little noise, I imagine.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo indeed,\u201d said Fluffy, curling his tail and grinning through his whiskers. \u201cIt was the stopping of a noise. Notice how quiet it is?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was indeed. There wasn\u2019t a sound in the house\u2014oh, yes, now he could hear the plodding footsteps of the maid on her way from the kitchen to Mrs. Benedetto\u2019s bedroom, and the soft clink of a teacup. But otherwise\u2014suddenly he had it. \u201cThe old horse stopped snoring!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe did,\u201d said the cat. The door across the hall opened, there was the murmur of the maid\u2019s voice, a loud crash, the most horrible scream Ransome had ever heard, pounding footsteps rushing down the hall, a more distant scream, silence. Ransome bounced out of bed. \u201cWhat the hell\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cJust the maid,\u201d said Fluffy, washing between his toes, but keeping the corners of his eyes on Ransome. \u201cShe just found Mrs. Benedetto.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFound\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes. I tore her throat out.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGood\u2014God! Why?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Fluffy poised himself on the windowsill. \u201cSo you\u2019d be blamed for it,\u201d he said, and laughing nastily, he leaped out and disappeared in the gray morning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

THE END<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cFluffy\u201d is a short story by Theodore Sturgeon, published in Weird Tales in March 1947. Ransome, a regular guest at social gatherings thanks to his talent for telling anecdotes, spends the weekend at the home of Mrs. Benedetto, an eccentric widow who is devoted to her enormous cat, Fluffy. Fascinated by his hostess\u2019s devotion and amused by the animal\u2019s indifference, Ransome amuses himself by reflecting on the nature of cats. However, during the night, a strange incident in the guest room will change the course of his stay.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":21750,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_kad_blocks_custom_css":"","_kad_blocks_head_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_body_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_footer_custom_js":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[559],"tags":[892,573,1689,570],"class_list":["post-27411","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-short-stories","tag-cats","tag-fantasy","tag-theodore-sturgeon","tag-united-states","generate-columns","tablet-grid-50","mobile-grid-100","grid-parent","grid-33"],"acf":[],"taxonomy_info":{"category":[{"value":559,"label":"Short stories"}],"post_tag":[{"value":892,"label":"Cats"},{"value":573,"label":"Fantasy"},{"value":1689,"label":"Theodore Sturgeon"},{"value":570,"label":"United States"}]},"featured_image_src_large":["https:\/\/lecturia.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/Theodore-Sturgeon-Fluffy.webp",1024,1024,false],"author_info":{"display_name":"Juan Pablo Guevara","author_link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/author\/spartakku\/"},"comment_info":"","category_info":[{"term_id":559,"name":"Short stories","slug":"short-stories","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":559,"taxonomy":"category","description":"","parent":0,"count":418,"filter":"raw","cat_ID":559,"category_count":418,"category_description":"","cat_name":"Short stories","category_nicename":"short-stories","category_parent":0}],"tag_info":[{"term_id":892,"name":"Cats","slug":"cats","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":892,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":11,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":573,"name":"Fantasy","slug":"fantasy","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":573,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":89,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":1689,"name":"Theodore Sturgeon","slug":"theodore-sturgeon","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":1689,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":2,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":570,"name":"United States","slug":"united-states","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":570,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":293,"filter":"raw"}],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/27411","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=27411"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/27411\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":27412,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/27411\/revisions\/27412"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/21750"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=27411"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=27411"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=27411"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}