Iams Pepperoni
Even though I forgot to bring home the to-go-box out of Clay's fridge last night, I vividly remember deciding I was full and putting the leftovers in a box to take with me. When I got down to the last two bites of the piece I had on my plate, there was a bite that was just crust, and a piece that was thick and cheesy with a perfectly centered slice of pepperoni. In the interest of "saving the best for last," I ate the crusty bite first and then finished off with that lovely thick, cheesy, saucy, pepperoni-loaded last bite, and it was good.
And why might I have such a vivid memory of something so small, so trivial, so pointless? Well...
Last night when I got home, I was struck by a distinctive smell, and even though it took me a couple minutes to figure out just where it was, the stench was unmistakable. Cat Puke.
I still wonder why she never pukes in the litterbox; as human logic sends (most of) us toward the toilet when the urge to spew hits. They say Cats are clean animals, so why can't Hannah at least find her way to someplace easy to clean when she feels that urge to "eich-iech-eich" comin' on? I wouldn't mind tossing a magazine into the garbage, or shaking a rug out the back door, or spraying some 4-0-9 and wiping the tile floor, or even rinsing a gob down the bathtub drain. Why does she always have to speeyack on my bed and usually right where my pillow belongs???
Unlike my kitty, I've never been good at puking. I can go years without it, and when it does come around, it's usually violent. In the past ten years, I've barfed three times, tops. Twice while seriously ill, and one time involving booze; that's it. I inhaled a bug at the Fair the first year Clay and I were dating and I was soooooo sick and sooooooo close to puking, but I just couldn't get it to happen -- no matter how hard Clay tried to get me over the edge. I've had close-calls with cat products in the past; after two years of flinging the litterbox in it's entirety into a dumpster or over a ledge in the backyard, the first time I had to stay in the house and dump it into a garbage bag, I almost puked; but it's always an almost, and I wasn't exactly at my best then anyway...
Last night when I turned the Shop-Vac hose on to that turd-shaped gob of Iams Original mortared together with clotted hair and relentlessly stuck in a near-dried puddle of cat saliva on my pale pinkish peach bedspread, I was very, very close to that edge. I might've been alright if the Shop-Vac had worked the first time; but when I pulled it away and the gob strung back out of the hose, I was a near-goner. As I started to heave, I had to look away to concentrate on bein' tough, c'mon, don't be such a wuss, it's only a little cat food; but by the third heave, I had already decided that if it was gonna happen, it was gonna happen and I'd about as well just point the hose upward and mainline my puke into the Shop-Vac instead of making my bed even worse. At least Hannah's speeyack wasn't enough to soak through the blankets and into the matterss -- if I puked on the bed, I'd surely kill the mattress with my all-but-two-slices of a medium deep-dish pizza, two Diet Dr. Peppers, and then a bottle of water, and a couple mints that I ate on the drive home.
It must've been knowing that the end of the Shop-Vac hose had just been dragging about in a gooey gob of partially-digested cat food that stopped me from putting it close to my own face to let fly with my own partially-digested dinner; because once I'd "threw up in my mouth a little," I forced that last bite of pizza (which had apparently crowded around the mints) back down so I was fine and therefore able to scrape the chunk off the bedspread with the end of the hose and let the suction take it away. If you have pets of any sort (or maybe kids too), the Shop-Vac is quite possibly the greatest thing you could bring home -- because let's face it, if I'd had to use paper towels and plastic grocery bags to get that wad off of my bed, I really would have barfed full-on into whatever was handy and then had a much bigger mess to clean up. Plastic grocery sack full of my own vomit? No Thanks, that's why I forced it back down -- shorter path, less resistance, absolutely no visual...
So, tonight, it's Laundry-Mat Night -- where I'll happily have time to knit away from home and possibly finish up Mom's "Christmas Scarf '07," while listening to SmodCast on my iPod.
See, cat speeyack isn't all that bad...
More (hopefully with less puke) later. _\,,/
And why might I have such a vivid memory of something so small, so trivial, so pointless? Well...
Last night when I got home, I was struck by a distinctive smell, and even though it took me a couple minutes to figure out just where it was, the stench was unmistakable. Cat Puke.
I still wonder why she never pukes in the litterbox; as human logic sends (most of) us toward the toilet when the urge to spew hits. They say Cats are clean animals, so why can't Hannah at least find her way to someplace easy to clean when she feels that urge to "eich-iech-eich" comin' on? I wouldn't mind tossing a magazine into the garbage, or shaking a rug out the back door, or spraying some 4-0-9 and wiping the tile floor, or even rinsing a gob down the bathtub drain. Why does she always have to speeyack on my bed and usually right where my pillow belongs???
Unlike my kitty, I've never been good at puking. I can go years without it, and when it does come around, it's usually violent. In the past ten years, I've barfed three times, tops. Twice while seriously ill, and one time involving booze; that's it. I inhaled a bug at the Fair the first year Clay and I were dating and I was soooooo sick and sooooooo close to puking, but I just couldn't get it to happen -- no matter how hard Clay tried to get me over the edge. I've had close-calls with cat products in the past; after two years of flinging the litterbox in it's entirety into a dumpster or over a ledge in the backyard, the first time I had to stay in the house and dump it into a garbage bag, I almost puked; but it's always an almost, and I wasn't exactly at my best then anyway...
Last night when I turned the Shop-Vac hose on to that turd-shaped gob of Iams Original mortared together with clotted hair and relentlessly stuck in a near-dried puddle of cat saliva on my pale pinkish peach bedspread, I was very, very close to that edge. I might've been alright if the Shop-Vac had worked the first time; but when I pulled it away and the gob strung back out of the hose, I was a near-goner. As I started to heave, I had to look away to concentrate on bein' tough, c'mon, don't be such a wuss, it's only a little cat food; but by the third heave, I had already decided that if it was gonna happen, it was gonna happen and I'd about as well just point the hose upward and mainline my puke into the Shop-Vac instead of making my bed even worse. At least Hannah's speeyack wasn't enough to soak through the blankets and into the matterss -- if I puked on the bed, I'd surely kill the mattress with my all-but-two-slices of a medium deep-dish pizza, two Diet Dr. Peppers, and then a bottle of water, and a couple mints that I ate on the drive home.
It must've been knowing that the end of the Shop-Vac hose had just been dragging about in a gooey gob of partially-digested cat food that stopped me from putting it close to my own face to let fly with my own partially-digested dinner; because once I'd "threw up in my mouth a little," I forced that last bite of pizza (which had apparently crowded around the mints) back down so I was fine and therefore able to scrape the chunk off the bedspread with the end of the hose and let the suction take it away. If you have pets of any sort (or maybe kids too), the Shop-Vac is quite possibly the greatest thing you could bring home -- because let's face it, if I'd had to use paper towels and plastic grocery bags to get that wad off of my bed, I really would have barfed full-on into whatever was handy and then had a much bigger mess to clean up. Plastic grocery sack full of my own vomit? No Thanks, that's why I forced it back down -- shorter path, less resistance, absolutely no visual...
So, tonight, it's Laundry-Mat Night -- where I'll happily have time to knit away from home and possibly finish up Mom's "Christmas Scarf '07," while listening to SmodCast on my iPod.
See, cat speeyack isn't all that bad...
More (hopefully with less puke) later. _\,,/
Labels: Hannah
posted by Debbie at 8:56 AM
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