Of all the days to barf on my coat, why did my cat have to choose today? It snowed, for Pete’s sake.
I suppose I brought it on myself. I should have hung it up. Inevitably, when my jet black peacoat is left out on any flat surface, my obese felines only have two options: 1) take up residence on it, leaving a thick fur trail as evidence of their shifting during their nap 2) barf on it.
This morning, it was the latter.
You know, for a moment I had some kind of a sick satisfaction about it. Because about a week ago, I bought a Groupon for drycleaning services and today’s event proved it was a wise investment.
But it’s the gatling gun effect that really gets me. You know, the gatling gun effect: walk-stop-barf, walk-stop-barf. The first pile of kitty krunch an owner finds is seldom alone. It’s joined by a series of other unfortunate incidents which are scattered around the house and must be carefully and thoroughly sought out for fear of the dreaded puke-in-the-toes. Sometimes this is a result of a hard-to-reach hairball in the deep recesses of their kitten throats. Sometimes, they just like to take a leisurely stroll while they puke. Like it’s no big deal.
And so I suffered in the harsh, cold winter air of the city today. Let it be known that when faced with the choice between barf-stained coat or no coat at all, I will take the high road.
I just wish that my cats had a little more consideration for me. After all I do for them, this is how they repay me.
I sound like a wounded mother.
And you know what? Maybe I am. I can name without effort numerous occasions where my cats have shown a blatant lack of respect for me.
Like the time I came home from a weekend vacation and found that the bamboo jar on the entertainment center had been knocked over and onto our new television, sending it into a poltergeist-like flurry of unstoppable channel flipping, volume adjusting madness. A chunk of fur was found in the vase and submitted to the court as the incriminating evidence.
And then there are the times that they dash into the refrigerator when I’m thinking about what to eat and absolutely refuse to come out unless by brute force.
Or last night, even. Hobbes claimed the coffee table as his own and systematically began pushing everything out of his way: magazines, coasters, cups, controls… As a final act of defiance, he pushed the candy dish off. It fell to the ground, spilling a pool of foil-wrapped wonders all over the carpet, which my other cat, Lola, proceeded to spastically bat around the living room. They’re an unrelenting tag team of terror.
But there are little things they do on occasion that make them absolutely irresistable. The belly-up pose in the living room, the taking-up-residence-in-the-bathroom-sink, the frequent visits to my lap and assault on my hands as I curl up to relax, and (my favorite) the adorable cat nap that inspires a human nap. Surely, the ultimate win for my crazy cat lady antics is being able to curl up to a warm kitten, forget all my worries, and drift off to sleep.
Until I wake to the sound of its regurgitation. ♣
So some of you were grossed out by yesterday’s post. And understandably so. U.U.S.S. is an unfortunate and unpleasant reality for millions of suffering Americans. And I promised you the hope of a more pleasant post today. …But it has just now occured to me that I posted about cat barf. I’m deeply sorry for this oversight. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll write about freshly laundered linens and rainbow sprinkles.