You may remember this cat from such hits as “nearly dying and costing me a thousand fucking dollars last year,” and “Bad housekeeping/good geography” back in September.  I am going to punch him in in his stupid cat face once per day until I get tired of having to catch him to punch him in his stupid cat face once per day.

Allow me to set the scene:  it is roughly 6:55 AM.  I am already running several minutes late as I exit the shower, to discover my wife getting dressed and the boy playing on the bed.  I discover that I have no socks.  My wife tells me that there are some socks in the laundry room, so I, barefoot but otherwise dressed, head off to the laundry room to acquire them.  Important detail about my house:  due to weird architecture and a persistently stuck door that I haven’t done anything about yet, our laundry room is literally the farthest point in the house from our bedroom, but shares a wall with it– meaning that if you’re in there you can generally hear anything going on in the bedroom.

I am looking around for my socks when I suddenly hear two things, which both start at once:  my wife, yelling “Oh God!” over and over, and my son, screaming his fucking head off.

I race to my room at top speed, still barefoot.  My son is still screaming, his face is purple, he’s holding his hand at a very wrong-looking angle, and my wife… well, I’m not really sure what the hell she’s doing.  She appears to be chasing something.

My first thought, of course, is that the boy has fallen off the bed and broken his wrist.

Luckily for everyone involved, I quickly determine that no, that’s not what has happened.  I determine this because there is puke fucking everywhere, and I’m only barely exaggerating when I say that.  Apparently Shithead here was laying in his accustomed spot on my wife’s pillow when he started horking.  My wife tried to shoo him off the bed, and succeeded in doing so– except the little bastard started projectile vomiting in mid-shoo, leaving a foot-wide trail of cat vomit all over the following things:

1. All of her pillows
2. All of my pillows
3. The sheets on the bed
4. My son
5. My nightstand
6. My fucking phone
7. (He missed a stack of books by about an inch)
8. The floor near the nightstand, and finally finishing on
9. One of my shirts.

Kashmir is tiny.  There is more puke than there is cat.  I am not at all sure why this is even biologically possible.

This is why the boy is purpled and screeching; he’s got cat vomit on his hand, which is in less of a “this is broken” awkward angle and more of an “I want this to fall off of my body” sort of angle.

So I get the boy cleaned up, we pull the linens off the bed, I clean off my nightstand and my phone, and I text my boss to let him know that I’m going to be late, and that he’ll greatly enjoy my reason when I get there to tell him about it.  Meanwhile, the boy has clearly decided that his three-year-old brain can’t quite process what has just happened, and spends the rest of the time I’m home asking a near-constant stream of clarifying questions:

• Is the cat sick?
• Does the cat have an upset tummy?
• Did the cat burp?
• Did the cat throw up?
• Did the cat throw up on the pillows/the bed/the sheets/Daddy’s phone/the floor/me?
• Did you clean up the kitty puke?
• Does the cat not feel good?
• Did you clean up me?
• Do you remember that time that the kitty burped on my hand?
• All of the above questions, but starting with the word “why”

Why the hell do we have pets again?

Oh, the punchline: ask me when I bought my pillows.

Go ahead.  Ask.

And then guess the answer.

If you said “two days ago,” you get to punch the cat too.

Little bastard.