You Will Never Want To Visit Me Again

I hate vomit, vomit skeeves me out beyond most things.

But I'm going to talk about it anyway.

Cats vomit, they just do, you know? It's gross and it can happen for a variety of non-emergent reasons but it's one of the many prices one pays for having the furry little fuckers around.

Recently my cats have been whooping it up like mardi gras. I think it's the weather. They chase each other over the furniture, they deliver repeated smack downs, tails are being corralled for punishment. It's sort of hilarious given that they're almost 10 years old at this point.

There was some chasing going on this morning. Huge circles around the apartment no matter what was in their way. I was sitting on the couch and the action took a pause near my feet. (It's OK, my feet don't get it.) The little furballs stared at each other a moment and one made a sort of "urp" kind of noise that was new to me. Then everything took off again.

Moments later I heard the terrifying precursor noise that hacking, gaggy sort of thing that gets you bolt out of bed to whip a cat onto bare floor. I checked it out and bare floor had already been achieved so I waited. Then I looked again.

Well, that was a mistake.

Due to complex digestive constraints my spoiled felines are restricted to eating a pretty expensive wet food made of venison and green peas. It looks basically the same coming out of the can as it does coming out of the cat. Miss Anna managed to give up everything she ate earlier. It was a lot of mess and man, did I ever not want to have anything to do with cleaning that up.

So I didn't.

I would have. I promise. But that food is expensive and so are paper towels and good lord it was gross. I needed a few minutes to steel myself for the task. By the time I turned around it was like nothing had ever happened.

I'll mop the floor when I clean tomorrow, I promise. I just really didn't want to scoop that up.