My Mum came home from a meeting last night to find a little heap of cat puke in the back hallway. This is strange because my cat doesn't puke very much anymore. He used to have some sort of thyroid problem that made him puke, like, twice a day, but they have prescription catfood (yeah, that exists) for him now and he's much better. A healthy cat. A happy cat. A handsome cat. Oh, so handsome.
My cat's name is Simon. Well, more accurately, my sister's cat's name is Simon. When she turned 16 she asked for a cat or a car, so... He's orange and pretty and very opinionated. Opinionated? Is that the right word? Well, I guess what I mean is, he knows what he likes. And who he likes. The milkman, for example - not so much. Marilyn's husband - definitely not. The paperboys - a million times no. He loves me, though, which makes me love him back, if not only because I've seen what he does to those he does not like, and I'm grateful.
So last night Mum found the puke and I ducked my head and hoped she wouldn't ask me to clean it up. I evaded that chore, even though Mum finished cleaning it up and described the procedure to me in great detail. Not nice of her, but perhaps punishment enough for not volunteering to do it myself. It was a bit of a mystery because he really never pukes anymore, but we shrugged our shoulders and kept watching Jeopardy.
Later, Mum found the puke-inducer. She had made chile for supper. She cooked the ground beef and drained the fat into an empty tin and set it to congeal on the counter to dispose of later. After Simon found it, there was nothing left in the tin but a ring of hard fat around the top. So, could it have been the half cup of drippings and other miscellaneous fluids that made the cat barf? I'm no geologist, but I think so.
Wrapping up, my cat's a trooper.
True dat. Double true.