Monday, December 27, 2010

Why Cat Vomit Is Funny. Or Not.

Today's Dish Crashing in my Head: Geisha

A few months ago, a friend of ours (hereafter referred to as ED (Evil Dude) came and stayed with us for a while. We loved our ED (he wasn't evil then) and so we let him move in for awhile. We all got along well, but when he got back on his feet and moved, he was sooooo grateful for our help that he left us a thank-you present:
His cat. 
And not just any cat. A rare breed of cat known as the Felinius Vomitus Peelecticus, which translated means "Cat that projectile vomits every time she eats and has urinated on the floor every day since her beloved master left her here." 
Her name is Geisha and she is a Ragdoll--no, not like the kind you used to sleep with and bang against the wall when mommy wouldn't bring you a glass of water at night--but a breed of cat called Ragdolls. She is the sweetest little kitty in the world. However . . .
Her little, er, problem is making dishes collide inside my head, and I thought, hey, why should I be alone in my agony? So, please, join me. I am picking up dish #1 and giving it a big ol' toss right now . . .

Dish # 1:  This is a sweet, sweet little kitty. But she is not my kitty. She is your kitty, dear ED and you should come and get her so that she can do her business in the place she was meant to--your shoes and bed. Yeah, that felt good. Picking up dish number two.

Dish # 2:  Geisha has always thrown up after she eats, so this was nothing new or unexpected, however, our ED always cleaned up her messes. After a few days. Now, however, the ED is not here to clean up the mess. My husband is doing it. This dish is for him. (That one bounced a little).

Dish #3 :  Because my dear hubby is the one cleaning up the mess, he has decided--strangely enough--that we need to find sweet Geisha a home. Problem? Who would want to adopt a cat with these particular, uh, problems? She never did these things before ED left. She is obviously acting out. Traumatized. Unfortunately I can't afford a Cat Whisperer or Feline Psychologist, although I do have images of her lying on her back on a couch and telling a person wearing glasses all of the post-traumatic-stress she has had to suffer.

Now, let me interject here that we have been trying different kinds of cat food for poor little Geisha. She's obviously allergic or sensitive. So while we've been waiting on ED to come and get her, we have been spending thousands of dollars (okay, not thousands, I exaggerate) only hundreds of dollars on expensive cat foods, which don't include all the crap that cheap cat food includes like "day-old seafood turned into hard chunks shaped into triangles" and words my hubby can't read because he only has a Masters degree. The result: (Please insert sound of cat hurling her supper here)
You know,when ED first left, I would have nothing to do with Geisha. I knew I'd get attached to her and we already knew she was not staying. I already had a melancholy Corgi to look after with his big brown eyes that continually beseech me to "love me, pet me, throw my toy, why don't you love me, take me outside, give me a treat, loooooveee meeeee", and also another cat, KK, who uses me as a butler as he goes in and out of the front door fifteen thousand times a day. 
            But one night, soon after ED left and Geisha became our new "guest", she wandered into the living room, and I made a big mistake. I let her sit in my lap. Awwww. I mean, she's soft and small and fluffy and cute and I'm a Big. Fat. Sucker.
Now Geisha cuddles up beside me all day while I work on my laptop. She sits in my lap at night when I watch TV. She would sit there forever if I would let her. She loves me. And I, uh, well, you know, she's okay I guess. (Here, Geisha, let me feed you another tiny spoonful of ground chicken. Does that make your tummy better?)

Ultimate Disastrous Dish #4: I am getting attached to this little ball of vomiting fluff. But the dear husband is getting tired of cleaning up the horrendous messes. And I guess you know, my faithful readers, that I certainly don't want to clean up the mess either. Sigh. (Inside my head the entire kitchen cabinet full of dishes begin to fall in slow motion to the floor....)

Dish #5: I love this furry meatball and my granddaughter loves her--it used to be her cat (my daughter is allergic and can't take her). So what's a dish-breaking, cat-loving, non-vomit-cleaning girl to do? 
I pick up the dish, take it outside, aim it directly toward North Austin, and let it fly. I like to think it will actually make it all the way there, and picture the horrified look on our dear ED's face when he sees it coming his way. Ka-pow.

Okay, now I feel much better. Geisha, come sit in my lap.

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