Waving Not Drowning

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 delica...

Sliced right through the side of his thumb. Nearly nicked the bone. Great, Aaron thinks. Instead of  a 40 mile ride as planned he's gonna end up sitting in emerg for hours waiting to get stitched up. Awesome. He spontaneously decides to repair the torn screen door to the back landing and bam, right into the bone. Box cutter meet thumb. Should've clipped Harley's nails last week and then he wouldn't have shredded the screen. Love that cat but man, right now little kitty mittens for the bugger sound like a great idea. Aaron is bleeding all over the place, his BMC kit now streaked with red brown blotches slowly leaking through the spandex. Great, now he has to get stains out of his jersey- probably not what he should be focusing on at the moment but he's partial to his man, Cadel. That's an image: fully kitted out and off to hospital. Knee high argyle compression socks and all. At least he'll stand out in triage. This sucks. Aaron can not believe how lousy his ...

Get your face outta my face- step back, you fur footed, screeching, shedmonster. Get off. Get off! Getoffgetoffgetoff! Crikey, I swear, thank god you were unbelievably cute as a kitten because right now you're making me nutty. Really? Wow, really, you're going to eat that- DROP IT! Oh, don't make me chase you- no- damn. Seriously! Ok, it's your funeral. And my $2000 vet bill- DO NOT EAT THAT! Great, there goes the day, waiting for you to puke up a four inch strand of rainbow coloured fleece. You're one in a million, short bus kitty, really, one in a bloody million. Here- here! Here you go, have some treats! That's right, come on kitty, uh huh, that's the way...ok, do not make me lift the bed frame off the floor. I will drop this, it will make a loud noise and you will bolt and we will play stupid cat and mouse- literally- up and down the length of this house for twenty minutes and today is not the day, alright? Ok? Alright? Ok? Come on, kitty- Just Drop It. ...

Can you stop playing with the mirror? It's going to kill you. I'm gonna wake up one morning to an eviscerated red tabby and it won't be pretty. I have no idea why you keep trying to swing off that thing. It's not like it's even in motion. Then again, with a brain the size of a chestnut, what can I hope for? Oh, I'm sorry, are you napping now, is that the plan? Tearing up and down the carpeted hall then literally climbing the walls for the last 40 minutes tuckered you out? Hey, I know- why don't you rest for a while then round about 3, 3:30 am come and bound over my head while climbing onto the shelf above my bed. Don't forget to yowl non-sensically too. That would be awesome. Just so you know, I don't get more than a 3 hour stretch of sleep at any given time. REM? Pffft, who needs it. Deep, restorative, healing sleep? Overrated. Then- and this is great, it really is- when I have to get up an hour later, punch drunk with exhaustion and puffy eyed from...