No One Likes A Puker
No one likes a puker, Doris. I've told you that a thousand times. You either learn to keep it down or stop it from starting in the first place. I am tired of cleaning up after you. Enough already. You're not a kitten anymore. And it's not like you spend your days grass grazing on the back forty like Bob's cats down the way. Slow down. SLOW DOWN, I say. But no. Food goes in the bowl and BOOM, like a black hole or tornado. The Tasmanian Devil, a whirling dervish snarfing it up like there will never be another score.
I should have empathy. I should. I DO, I really do. It's just you're so good for a week or four and then blammo, like a cartoon character, projectile vomit streams across the floor. A torrent of fetid, viscous mush, resting in a pool of yellow bile. I'm on the fourth rug now, you hear me? FOURTH. I'm not made of money, you know. Most of that goes to your fancy ass vet-only dry food and low fat "mature cat" tinned food. You delicate creature.
It's a good thing you're cute.
Yes, I fear maybe there's a serious underlying cause we've yet to discover but every time I rush you to the vet, $700 later and we're no farther ahead.
So here's the dealio, ok Doris? Slow down, keep it down, lay off the speed eating and try to play more often. Simple. Any one of the dozens of balls or mice or wands or crinkle toys that I trip over and get caught up in. All of them, for you. Don't think I'm not aware of the irony that if one day my misstep sends me ass over tea kettle into the kitchen counter, that you'll come for me. As I lay dying, expiring in my own waste, alone, ignored, undiscovered, that you will make a meal of the fattiest part of me first, given your druthers. You present as a sweet, loving, gentle rescue but truth be told you're an obligate carnivore. I've seen the films.
But until that day, I'll watch my gait and brace my core, making sure I stay upright if you promise- in whatever way you can with that chestnut sized brain of yours- to stop puking up your food and learn to enjoy the long, slow meal.
Don't even get me started on your litterbox.
I should have empathy. I should. I DO, I really do. It's just you're so good for a week or four and then blammo, like a cartoon character, projectile vomit streams across the floor. A torrent of fetid, viscous mush, resting in a pool of yellow bile. I'm on the fourth rug now, you hear me? FOURTH. I'm not made of money, you know. Most of that goes to your fancy ass vet-only dry food and low fat "mature cat" tinned food. You delicate creature.
It's a good thing you're cute.
Yes, I fear maybe there's a serious underlying cause we've yet to discover but every time I rush you to the vet, $700 later and we're no farther ahead.
So here's the dealio, ok Doris? Slow down, keep it down, lay off the speed eating and try to play more often. Simple. Any one of the dozens of balls or mice or wands or crinkle toys that I trip over and get caught up in. All of them, for you. Don't think I'm not aware of the irony that if one day my misstep sends me ass over tea kettle into the kitchen counter, that you'll come for me. As I lay dying, expiring in my own waste, alone, ignored, undiscovered, that you will make a meal of the fattiest part of me first, given your druthers. You present as a sweet, loving, gentle rescue but truth be told you're an obligate carnivore. I've seen the films.
But until that day, I'll watch my gait and brace my core, making sure I stay upright if you promise- in whatever way you can with that chestnut sized brain of yours- to stop puking up your food and learn to enjoy the long, slow meal.
Don't even get me started on your litterbox.
PREACH. Ha!
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