Monday Morning

The day began at seven a.m. to the wet retching sounds that signaled an imminent hairball that would most likely be quite inconveniently deposited, as cats have no ability to leave these mighty offerings on bare wood or linoleum preferring rugs or carpeting or--even better--an article of clothing or important paper, perhaps a library book. I had the split second between receipt of sound, recognition of sound, its meaning and consequences, initial sleep-caked decision to ignore, quick reconsideration, and final leap from bed to convulsing cat who was indeed on the rug mere inches from the wooden expanse of floor. They must be moved and held through both the primary, more copious, ejection and the secondary, for if they are simply caught and released, they will drag themselves slowly back to the rug or object on the floor like morning glories reaching for the nearest limb (this is another thing on my mind today, but that was the last thing I did before leaving the house, and this is the story of the first).

It was just a hairball--a small plug, at that, decorated with small lavender flecks that can only mean that he has been nibbling at the dried remains of the last bouquet that stood on the piano until the brackish water began to emir that sulfuric, biological cloud that ends every nice bundle of flowers no matter the level of love or sympathy or regret with which they were given.