On my knees, I heave
while Chris steps in a hairball
and the cat triumphs.
A few weeks ago I had the stomach flu – the particularly intense kind that wakes you out of a sound sleep and sends you flying to the bathroom unsure if you’re going to make it in time. It is accompanied by the most intense abdominal contractions I have ever experienced. As I kneel on the floor, I start to worry that my actual stomach will come up when I’ve run it empty of its contents. While this is going on, my husband sleepily emerges from the bedroom to be a comforting presence. Before he can get to me, I hear a sudden loud exclamation (hint: it isn’t “ugh!”). Suddenly wide awake, he informs me that he’s just stepped in a big still-warm pile of cat yack. And all the while, the cat is purring and purring, and rubbing up against my thighs and draping his big fluffy tail dangerously close to the toilet bowl. He is rapturously happy. And as if he’s somehow beamed his thoughts right into my miserable head, I imagine him thinking, “Best! Party! Ever!”
Cats are freaking weirdos. If you live with one, you already know that. If you don’t, consider yourself forewarned.