Mel, people get cats sometimes thinking they'll be less work than children. We need to stab a fork in that, get on one end and pull, until it comes apart in the middle.
I don't know what made me think of that.
They should have signs: "Will make work for food."
Speaking of making things work, Fui threw up around nine this morning in the front room. Then she apparently ran in and peed and pooped on the laundry room rug. (So as to be handy for me to clean up. Meowing at the door, as has been the custom for thousands of years ~ that would be a burden.)
All MJ will say, is, "She's old." I try to remain silent, swallowing "replies" at strep-throat pace, "knowing" what is good for me. What's a little catdoo and gooey vomit? Seeping on your fingers through the tissues? At least I didn't find it with my feet. (I don't go round the house looking down. I guess that makes me, well, really stupid. I forgot those guys are on the mortgage.)
I have stepped in stuff I've "left there," thinking, goddamit, I'm not cleaning that up right now. "I'm a responsible professional, with shit to do, and I don't need shit to do." I get mad.
Always looks like a pubble of fake barf there; but it's wet.
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