(no subject)
Was it Socrates, or the bottle cap to the Coke I used to mix with my rum that said, "you gotta learn something each new day." Whomever it was, whatever the case, I did learn something today; I learned who REALLY wears the pants in this family. All jokes about how my mother just can't miss an episode of 'The Ellen DeGeneres Show' aside I was actually surprised to find out that it is not my mother, but my dear sweetest Jubilee Cat who could lace up a size 9 boot and kick all of our asses.
This morning, I'd say about an hour to an hour and a half after having woken up from a sordid dream about Barbara Walters (don't ask because I'm not going to tell) my cat runs into my room and sits herself down on the edge of the end of my bed. My cat NEVER comes into my room. EVER. But there she was looking so cute and cuddly I just wanted her to die right there so I could take her to a taxidermist so I could keep her forever.
Then without warning she vomits. Not just a little hairball here, and a little one there, or even that gross brownish log that always made me think of Cap'n Crunch that she did when she was a baby. Nope. This was like that scene in Jurassic Park where Newman goes to pet that little baby dinosaur and green liquid is just going all over the place like clothes in a hotel room after the prom party. It got Tori Spelling ugly.
She pukes on two of my blankets, all the clothes I have on the floor that are already a crazy mess anyway, the carpet, and wouldn't you know it one of the small parts in my room that isn't covered by carpet, but is just wood paneling.
The bitch pukes all over. Now I'm thinking, "oh my God my cat is dying" all while the same time I'm thinking if I push my bookcase ontop of her can I make it look like an accident. So I go and comfort her; we're both looking at each other and she just takes off running.
No thank yous, no goodbyes - she just takes off running.
And as she's turning the corner to go in the kitchen she looks back as to say, "you just got owned mutha fucker."
This morning, I'd say about an hour to an hour and a half after having woken up from a sordid dream about Barbara Walters (don't ask because I'm not going to tell) my cat runs into my room and sits herself down on the edge of the end of my bed. My cat NEVER comes into my room. EVER. But there she was looking so cute and cuddly I just wanted her to die right there so I could take her to a taxidermist so I could keep her forever.
Then without warning she vomits. Not just a little hairball here, and a little one there, or even that gross brownish log that always made me think of Cap'n Crunch that she did when she was a baby. Nope. This was like that scene in Jurassic Park where Newman goes to pet that little baby dinosaur and green liquid is just going all over the place like clothes in a hotel room after the prom party. It got Tori Spelling ugly.
She pukes on two of my blankets, all the clothes I have on the floor that are already a crazy mess anyway, the carpet, and wouldn't you know it one of the small parts in my room that isn't covered by carpet, but is just wood paneling.
The bitch pukes all over. Now I'm thinking, "oh my God my cat is dying" all while the same time I'm thinking if I push my bookcase ontop of her can I make it look like an accident. So I go and comfort her; we're both looking at each other and she just takes off running.
No thank yous, no goodbyes - she just takes off running.
And as she's turning the corner to go in the kitchen she looks back as to say, "you just got owned mutha fucker."