“I found this on the floor by my bed.”
Chaylee came shuffling down the stairs in her absurd, over sized pajamas carrying a piece of notebook paper with the word SKOR scribbled across the top and a mysterious swirly object in the center. We examined the enigmatic mound and placed our bets on what it might be. I settled on semi dried acrylic paint of the alizarin crimson variety. To prove my theory, I gave it a gentle poke.
“That’s not paint! That’s not paint!”
A trickle of blood poured from the base of the innard. Whatever organ it was, it was fresh, warm, and licked clean.
I realize that cats are hunters, but this was some next level Dexter nonsense. Not only did Bill drag the carcass of a freshly slain rabbit across the sleeping bags of slumbering children, leaving tufts of fur and bunny blood on their innocent little sleeping bags, but he then set up a coroner station by the shoe bin. I am surprised we didn’t find fava beans and a nice chianti in the toy kitchen.
Bunny, bird and rodent death had become commonplace. Especially throughout the lower levels of the house. So common, in fact, that over time all four of our children had slowly migrated upstairs to avoid accidentally stepping on bird feathers or fur balls with bare feet in the morning. That’s what made this gruesome discover even more depressing. It was gutting to see the last bastion of bedtime peace be turned into a bunny morgue. Where on earth would the kids sleep? Would their cousins ever want to stay the night again? It was as if Bill was claiming more and more land and raising a creepy fur pelt flag over each room he deemed his.
This was not the first time I had witnessed a hostile take over of humans by an animal.
It was 1985. We were headed to Mount Rainier with Uncle Kenny and his dog, Sport. Mom and I sat in the back of the sedan with his ill behaved black lab, taking in the Bob Ross painting that had come to life outside our windows. Stevie Wonder serenaded us, via cassette tape and all seemed right in the world. I think we would have figured out alternative travel arrangements though, if we knew Sport was prone to nausea.
We were about a half an hour into our ascent up The Mountain toward Paradise when Sport begin to slowly thrust his head back and forth rhythmically, as if he were really, really enjoying the music. He wasn’t. Sport was not feeling well. A gutteral utterance was followed by a deluge of dog vomit. Fumes filled the sedan as his quasi digested Alpo sunk into the carpet. We rolled the windows down and found a place to pull off and problem solve. We did away with as much of the regurgitated dog food as we could with Sport’s help. Apparently, dogs are down with with snacking on their own vomit. Who knew? His appetite was promising, and we did not want to disappoint the rest of the familial caravan, who were farther up the road, so we continued our journey–windows down.
We turned Stevie back on. The sun was shining. Sport seemed okay.
Until he wasn’t.
Once again, he moved his head back and forth like the Jackson 5. This time I knew he wasn’t just into music. The volume of vomit was extraordinary. It was as if he had consumed an additional meal without our knowledge during the previous pull over. His aim seemed strategic–blanketing the swatch of carpet adjacent to his previous purging. Not very thoughtful Sport. Not very thoughtful.
We looked for a place to pull off, but without a shoulder, our options were limited. It felt like a sick joke, especially when he threw up again on the last stretch of clean carpet in the back seat and then again on the seat above it.
The stench in the car was no longer tenable. Kenny pulled over at a convenience store and threw up in a rusted garbage can outside the very rural mini mart. My mother,who was born with a overly sympathetic gag reflex, dry heaved vociferously along side him. The hills were alive with the sound of vomit…I looked on with a churning stomach and visible concern. The adults no longer seemed in control of the situation.
Once the laughter and intermittent purging died down, we bought a green tree car freshener and returned to the contaminated sedan. We would clean up the car as much as humanly possible and hunker down on the only seat left in car void of vomit. We were gonna get to Paradise to meet up with the family if we had to go through hell to do it.
We arrived over an hour late, looking shattered and smelling like sick dog. Sport, however was suddenly cured. He frolicked through the wild flowers like a wayward teenager on Spring Break, looking surprising agile and alive after a bender.
Although the K-9 used biological warfare and the feline went the traditional route, utilizing senseless violence, both taught me a valuable lesson. Animals are capable of corralling humans for their own nefarious purposes. You’ve been warned.
Fun Facts: A year after Bill’s passing we discovered an abandoned kitten in some shrubs across the street. Her name is Meridah the Brave. She is kind. We got her a buddy named Leonard. He is weird and orange and uncomfortably into humans. We think he might be one. RIP Bill.
An additional fun fact: This is my last cat blog. I felt I owed it to Bill to complete the blog trilogy about his life. I feel bad that I ended it with a fascist feline overtone, but to be honest….he deserves it.
Challenge of the Day: I don’t want to be a mom blogger. I don’t want to be a cat blogger. I don’t want to be a mom with two cats blogger. I used to only write about moments of humiliation or awkward struggle. So, perhaps I should seek out more of those. If you think of a challenge you would like me to take on, please let me know.
Go out to dinner as Sparky, the Marvista Mascot. Yes, it’s true. I am the Orca. I mascot on the side as a service to my children.
Try out for the Seagals as Tonya, my Texas Dance Mom alter ego.