During the late hours of the overnight, while we were all sleeping soundly, fur bearing creatures were plotting to punish us.
For what?
Who knows.
I am in the kitchen making coffee, feeding the dogs, listening to Reilley scream at me for his morning fix of coffee cream, when a bare-chested Keith meanders beside me and announced that Goblet is in the front hallway throwing up her breakfast.
He didn't exactly phrase it like this but I'm not caffeinated enough to include what he actually said.
It's probably just a hairball, I said, hopeful that's really all it was.
No. It's not. There's a lot of it, he replied.
Upon inspection of ground zero, it would appear he was right.
It was a lot more than just a hairball.
She was eating Reilley's food.
Again.
And then gorged herself further with water.
Causing overload in her more-than-average-size stomach.
And expelling said overload all over the hallway.
Back in the kitchen, while I was reaching for the paper towel, Keith graciously says,
Do you want me to clean that up?
Yes, I said as I handed him the paper towel.
Oh, he replied, I didn't actually think you'd want me to clean it. I just wanted to be polite.
I gave him a withering look.
A pre-caffeinated withering look.
And then proceeded to ground zero to begin cleaning up the mess.
Frankie and Tikka were hovering.
Thinking: snack time!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Part of me just wanted to let them at it.
It would save me the trouble.
But, given how things have been here lately with bodily functions. . . .
. . . .let's not forget yesterday's piss and shitfest. . .
punishment I am sure for our going to Montreal and no one can convince me otherwise, I thought better of it.
I did, however, announce to Stephen that his precious-I-hate-Dawne-never-does-anything-bad-or-upsetting-always-angelic-grossly-overpampered-oh-so-misunderstood-and-maligned feline had voided the contents of her stomach all over the hallway.
If it had of been any other fur bearing creature other than Goblet, all hell would have broken loose.
Piles and piles of previous empirical evidence supports this.
But because it was the Queen Herself, all we heard was a "GOB-LET" and I'd better go check on her to see if she's alright.
And that's when I stopped cleaning and told him he could he finish cleaning it up himself.
Double standards.
There are double standards afoot.
Stephen, as we know, has an incredibly low tolerance for bodily fluids.
Bucket of warm water in one hand, cloths in the other, he headed toward ground zero gagging all the way.
Cleaning and gagging.
While I contentedly made my coffee and breakfast, knowing that he would, hopefully, think twice before engaging in such open exhibitions of his so obvious higher tolerance for all of Goblet's misdeeds.
But I doubt it.
Unfortunately, this would not be the end of our expulsion of bodily fluids.
Remember, late night plans were afoot.
As soon as I settled into my chair and turned on my computer, ready to begin my blog, I hear the always recognizable, fear inducing sounds of Frankie getting ready to bring up something.
I turned and there was a small puddle.
Still sounding like there was more to come, I looked at him and I said, STOP!
I didn't think it would work.
But it did.
He stopped.
A kleenex size puddle of water I can handle.
Science project-like explosions from favoured felines?
I just don't think so.
Yesterday was most productive.
After Em drove us to school. . . .
. . .as an aside, since receiving her beginner's licence, I haven't had to drive anywhere Em and I have been going. It's been quite lovely being chauffeured around. . .
. . .I headed to the Harriet Irving Library.
And spent the morning "old school style" reading through a draft of my journal article about tyranny of the immediate as a sensitizing concept, drinking Starbucks, and basking in the much missed sounds and smells of the library.
Not without a small glitch, however.
Of course.
Just as I had settled in, anticipating a wonderfully productive morning, my cell phone starts dinging, announcing I have a text message.
It's Emily.
MUM! I LEFT MY PHONE IN THE CAR!
My spidey senses knew what the unasked for request was.
I write back, Em, this won't kill you. I know you believe it will. But it won't.
A few minutes later, she replies, "MUMMMMM. PLLLLLEEEEAAAAASEEEEEE. . . I REALLY NEED MY PHONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Knowing Em as I do, I knew this could continue on until she got her way, so I replied, Em, I am working. At the library. I am not bringing you your phone.
And then I turned my phone off.
Adding another ingredient to the air of bliss and contentment surrounding me.
But no good deed goes unpunished.
I arrive home around 1.15 because it's sunny, breezy and there is gardening to be done.
As soon as I walk into the house, canines cavorting in full swing, Stephen is marching down the stairs, not yelling but close, SICK!
SICK!
SICK!
SICK!
I have been worried sick about you. I called your office, I called your cellphone, no one answered, SICK!
I was at the library. I told you I was going to the library last night. And I turned my cell phone off. I was at the library afterall.
You could have at least left me a note.
I did.
Where? he insolently replied.
In my blog.
Read it.
Title Lyric: Crazy Cats by Budda Monk
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