My cat threw up this morning about ninety seconds after he’d finished breakfast. I found it as I was stepping out onto my balcony (balcony makes it sound like I live in a mansion on the sea; I don’t) to water my dying bougainvilleas. There it was, looking like I’d dumped a fresh can of Friskies’ Ocean Treasures directly onto my hardwoods.
I stared down at it for a second, trying to will it disappear. No luck.
So I stepped out and watered my dead flowers, thinking maybe it’d go away while I was outside, and upon reentering the house noticed my dog, Cowboy Ledbetter, warily eyeing the puke.
Now, I have a very well-behaved dog. I’m serious. He could reach at least twelve different food types right this second on the lowest shelf of my pantry, but all he does is step in there once a week or so and sniff all the foods he can’t eat. Cowboy Ledbetter knows that unless it’s dog food, he has to have my permission to eat anything in this house, or else I’ll gasp really dramatically (and I don’t know why in the world, but my dog feels so bad about himself when I gasp at him that you’d think he’d eaten a child. He thinks it’s like, the end. Like, Jesus come now because my lady just gasped at me and I can’t handle it.)
So anyway, there Cowboy was, about four feet from the puke, stretching his neck and smelling the air.
And then, I did something horrible.
Are you ready?
You’re not ready.
I’m not ready.
I said, in my voice I use when I’m giving Cowboy a new toy, “It’s okaaaay Cowboy! You can eat it! Thasa GOOD boy!”
And he ate the puke.
And I had a lot less to clean up.
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