Yanked out of sleep (and a weird dream about crossing the Champlain Bridge in a bus and watching migrating monarch butterflies negotiate the traffic) at 7.55 AM by the sound of Marmalade attempting to hurl on the duvet. My first instinct was to push him off the bed and onto the floor. This can only mean one of two things:
Although I love them dearly, my cats are not substitutes for babies.
I will make a terrible mother.
Anyway, he puked under my desk. Better than on the duvet cover, which would have to be schlepped down to the basement and washed for $4 - loonies or quarters only. I cleaned up the puke and attended to the cat, who seemed fine - not hiding, not in pain, not lethargic.
And in fact, just minutes later, he was chowing down on his Iams cat crunchies. I shrugged and made coffee.
But before the coffee had even cooled enough to drink, Marmalade was puking again - in his own bed this time. Again, I got out the rubber gloves, the paper towels, the cleaning and odour-removing supplies (all non-toxic and safe to use around pets, so I know he's not reacting to those).
By the time I was making a second cup of coffee, he was eating again. I don't get it.
Well, so far so good. Here they are now: