So before we start today’s story, this:
I am sitting at my desk, ready to blog. Oli and Obi, of course, are on hand. On desk. Oliver is standing in the plastic bag that my new power strip (nerds say “yay!”) came in, and scratching his chin on the corner of the cardboard box that my new mouse (geeks say “hollah!”) came in. Scratching his chin makes his foot want to scratch. His foot is held down by a plastic bag.
Scratch. Lose balance. Scratch. Lose balance.
He’s given up. He’s laying down. Send tuna.
So, the real story:
This week I bought some massively huge steaks for The Boy to grill for us. Massive. Huge. And also? Delicious. They were so big that neither of us finished our serving last night. But kittens were waiting.
Since I am not one to disappoint my fuzzies, I moved my remaining steak over to The Boy’s plate so Oli and Obi could lick the steak juice off of mine. And they did. And then…
It wasn’t a literal explosion, of course, but things came forth from his head at alarming pace. On the rug. In the entry way. In the hall. Under my desk. Now, anyone who has followed this blog for any length of time knows that Oli has a sensitive stomach. Anything the wrong color, or temperature, or on the wrong day or served facing the wrong direction makes his stomach revolt. And it isn’t surprising that his stomach didn’t like our steak which – when ordering at a restaurant – we describe as “ask the cow to walk over the flame before she plunks down on our plate” rare.
So no big.
This morning I nearly forgot that I had a whole serving of steak left over from last night. Luckily The Boy came home for lunch. I held Obi so we could watch The Boy prepare a burrito type thing with beans (in a can but NOT tuna) and green chiles (GROSS) and chopped up steak (whatever). What Obi was waiting for was cheese (yes!). I have never seen a look that communicated “where’s the damn cheese?” any more clearly than the look Obi gave The Boy.
There was cheese.
There was also fat. Now, there’s no way I would ever cut the fantastically delicious fat off of my steak. But The Boy did. So I chopped it up and put it on the breakfast plate for Obi. He looked at it in disgust and walked away once he’d finished his cheese. He is SUCH The Boy’s cat.
Not as interested in preparing food and starving, I did not make a burrito. I nuked my steak in the storage bowl, grabbed a fork, stabbed said steak and gnawed on it in a circular fashion. Still delicious.
The bowl went down on the floor for Obi. As The Boy headed back to work, we both congratulated Obi on his not exploding like his brother did last night. I played my turn in WordFeud. And then…
Obi started walking backward around the house…
Obi walks backwards when he is sick. I don’t know if he’s trying to back out of the situation, if he thinks he can get away from that bad feeling in his throat, or if he just doesn’t want to get anything on his fur. Whatever his reason, the result is a solid trail of explosion that crosses four rooms. And today it was severe.
I was scared. I thought about texting The Boy to warn him but then I decided I’d wait to see if I started to feel like exploding. I didn’t. The Boy didn’t.
The biggest result of this kind of explosion, aside from the joy I derive from using half a roll of paper towels to clean it up, is the snuggle factor. I believe this is true of every creature on earth: your mama will make it better. I spent all last night with a grey kitten pressed into my chest. The situation was repeated this afternoon with a brown kitten.
No more cow juice for the kittens.
This week I realized that Kitten Thunder is never going to let me work outside the home ever again. We’ve become spoiled by lunch time naps and belly rubs on demand. I’ve assured Oli and Obi that I have enough clients and, if they could just stop laying on the keyboard, I’ll have no trouble paying the bills.
But, just to make sure – and because it’s a heck of a lot of fun – we opened a store on zazzle.com. Right now we have some ties with photos of landmarks – Devils Tower, Mount Rushmore, Niagra Falls, the Golden Gate Bridge, etc.
And we also have some photos of Cousin Spade. HIS people have already contacted MY people about his cut of this deal. MY people informed HIS people that he signed over his royalty rights during the photo shoot in exchange for a belly rub. Given his penchant for drawing blood during such an occasion, I’m pretty sure he got the better end of the deal.