Wasn’t I just thinking we were enjoying a long break in the furball cycle? I mean, with four cats the lulls in throwing up and cleaning up are rare.
And didn’t I just put out the trash, say good night to their fuzzy faces, and climb into bed, only to hear HAUCK HAUCK LAUUUHT — not once, but twice?
Upon turning on all the lights in the living room, didn’t I see the hind end of Skinny Fannie heading behind the couch to throw up for a third time? The 10-pound cat notorious for throwing up 16 times in a single bout?
Facing the inevitable, didn’t I put on my glasses — because more than cleaning it I hate stepping in it — grab the paper towels and jug of Nature’s Miracle, and follow the trail?
Wasn’t it true I didn’t want to wait up to find out if she was finished? And wasn’t I loathe to go to bed, knowing I’d just be up again?
Wasn’t I just thinking it was nice to have a break in the whole cat-gak cycle?
Guess what I’m thinking now.
You just described all the reasons that I just say no to cats! All of those and dead stuff. Remember when Norman put the dead mouse in my shoe and I found it with my foot at 5:30AM?
Norman gave you that mouse because he loved you! Now, if he’d thrown up in your shoe…