You know cats, the fluffy creatures that look all cuddly and timid until they start chewing relentlessly on your super expensive laptop charger, or start biting each other in the throat? They lay all soft, like a doughy loaf on your stomach, sleeping, until you wake up in searing pain after they decided that enough was enough and THREW themselves of off the tender flesh of your stomach, using their claws as leverage. They’re the furry ones that decide that night time is not for sleeping – for anyone!
Well, all that is fine, it’s something I can put up with. They’re so cutesy cute with their shiny fur and soft bellies and adorable faces.
But then they throw up on the floor. And you just kind of wait it out because, well, it’s kind of respectful having the cat finish before your rush in with the wad of household paper you’re clamping in a fist ready for action. Then the cat is finished puking. He takes a step back, looks at the puddle of awful. I'm already getting up to fix the mess. And then he steps back and starts eating it instead.
Excuse me while I cascade vomit all over the floor, the cat and its puke. Seriously. Not cool.
That trauma topped this Monday. I’m going to bed. Right now. Without cats.