The Barfer

What I'd like is for my cat to shut up.

This poor guy is an experiment in sinew-only living. So thin and unable to digest most anything. He's surviving on some barley concoction which he can keep down. Can't give him any of the things that he loves because he just barfs it up.

God help me I cooked dinner with some meat tonight. What an idiot! He has been meowing for about two hours now. Enough, I think, to make himself sick and throw up on the rug. Now that is some mental power. He's spent enough time imagining the food in his gullet that he barfed anyway.

His meowing has made the other cat go mental. He's making that fritzy meow sound and racing around like he's methed out. Now he's picking a fight with the bony cat. Let me tell you, they do not listen to reason. They do not live in the universe of behave.

My wish is that the barfer could eat what he wants. He'd still meow as much as a talk show host. But at least he'd have a little something to keep him warm on those days when the sun doesn't shine.

He's stopped his campaign of terror. He's now on my lap, sniffing my fingers, quiet. Just what was the fuss all about anyway? He's all purry as I scratch his face, his ears and his soft skeleton.