WHAT THE F...?!

It's 4:30 AM as in THE MORNING BEFORE THE SUN RISES AND I SHOULD BE SOUND ASLEEP IN MY BED. But no, once again, for the fifth time this week, I awaken to the sound of a cat puking.

While my fading dreams tease me to return to them, my desire to be a good Cat-Mama, ok my desire to make sure they didn't puke on my parent's antique oriental rug, drives me out of bed. Also, as some of you may recall, last year Bob Dole, the cat was VERY ill for many weeks, vomiting many times a day and always around 4 or 5AM, thank you, Bob. Bob was diagnosed with Pancreatitis and since it's a bitch to deal with, the sooner I figure out Bob needs meds, the sooner I can get him back to feeling better.

Now, I can almost tell which cat is puking just by the sound. Each barf has its' own unique timbre. For example, Gracie moans prior to puke-off and her offspring, Tunie, cries as though she were reenacting the death scene in La Boheme. It's great to get enough pre-puke warning that I can quickly usher (chase) the cat off the (damn) rug.

Bob, on the other paw, has a very LOUD gulping sound. It rattles the windows. When Bob's about to blow, there is no question. He usually does three warning "gulps," followed by a splash, sort of like a drink recipe if you don't count the fact that the contents don't end up in a glass and you'd probably never get a good tip if you tried to get someone to taste it.

I hear the telltale "Gulp, Gulp, Gulp." I race down stairs, trying not to break my neck since my legs haven't caught up with my brain. I reach the last step and see Bob waving slowly towards me. His gait says "Old Man," but he looks up at me those Puss In Boots (from Shrek 2) Eyes, pleading to be fed, again.

"There will be no food at 4:30am. I'm not teaching you to wake me up this early to feed you. No way." and with that, I begin the far too familiar search for The Unholy Grail, hoping I will see it before my bare foot accidently does, first.

My dear parents oriental rug, which I just hauled to my house last summer, after selling and emptying their home after they had both passed away. The rug is HUGE for my small house. It's wildly colorful and doesn't really fit my decor, if 100 lunchboxes and a collection of salt & pepper shakers that look like miniature appliances count as decor. It's got a boo-boo in the corner from my mother leaving a wet plant on it without any sort of protection, so I had it patched. It's not worth that much money, but it's the rug my Mother made my brother and I sit on while she mopped the kitchen floor. It became our island and we could go no further than the edges of the rug while the floor was wet. Mother would set the timer for 30 minutes and leave us alone. We would touch the floor every two seconds. It sure seemed to be dry, but why couldn't we leave the rug?

Because my Mother wanted a break from two crazy kids and took a nap for half an hour and her kids were too stupid to realize what was going on.

So this is why I have to protect the rug.

Woah. Bob barfed. A lot. On the rug. I quickly estimated it would be a two trip clean up. One to pick up the big blob, one to wash off the rug. I started to worry. Bob might be getting sick again...or...was it the Metacam he was taking for post surgery pain?

What I found out next almost made me scream, but heck, this post is getting kinda long, so I'll finish it up later. I need to get my Rant on and I'm still undecided on whether or not I need to have a LOUD, YELLING, SCREAMING "TALK" with Dr. Larry.