*WARNING: CONTAINS REFERENCES TO CAT PUKE*
I came downstairs on Monday morning to the far-more-familiar-than-I’d-like sound of indignant screaming at The Front. Sure enough, Cat Daddy had dropped the ball again whilst on late-night Louis Catorze duty and the little sod had been shut out all night.
I let him in, hoping that the screaming would stop once he was safely indoors. Nope: he wasn’t done. He circled my feet and continued to scream and scream, all wild-eyed and outraged.
Catorze raced to his water, then to his food. And, because he bolted each one far too fast, within minutes he had projectile-vomited across the living room.
Now, I am not good with puke. I am fine with other bodily secretions – well, not “fine” at all, but you know what I mean – yet something about puke offends me deeply. Most likely it’s the fact that it’s puke.
Our first cat, Nimbus, used to vomit in very convenient, scentless sausage shapes which one could simply lift away. (We did clean underneath, obviously, but we didn’t have to scrub as the solid sausages left no trace, not even on carpet.) Luther only ever puked once – when he ate a snail – so we didn’t have to deal with it habitually, although I did step in the lukewarm, vommed-up snail remains with bare feet which wasn’t very nice. But, whilst Catorze isn’t a frequent vomiter, we barely have any carpet in the entire Château yet he always manages to land on it. I know that he is doing this on purpose. I can’t prove it but I know it.
The plumber arrived when I was mid-clean. He had only ever met and dealt with Cat Daddy until then, and I’m not sure he even knew anyone else lived here, so the poor man must have had an almighty shock when the door was answered by me, hair tied up in a big pineapple shape on top of my head using a pair of knickers as a hair tie, sleeves rolled up and with a bottle of Method cleaning spray in one hand and a puke-encrusted kitchen towel in the other.
And, when he went upstairs to fit the new part to the boiler, Catorze followed to annoy him whilst he worked.
Cat Daddy slept through the whole sorry saga. And he found it very funny that I was the one left to deal with the screaming and the puke when it was his fault for shutting Sa Maj outside in the first place.
It really is a laugh a minute here at Le Château. Unfortunately it’s people laughing at me, not with me.