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 delica...