One of the joys of having a cat companion is getting to clean up cat vomit every once in a while.  Lindy is no exception in this respect.  She’s a long haired cat so hurked up hairballs are a common occurrence.  The noise she makes when barfing up a bezoar is the the stuff of nightmares.  It sounds like HUG-GAHK-HUG-GAHK-GUH-GAHK-BLEAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaach only with more sliminess.  That this occurs 50% of the time at night only makes it more nightmarish.

Last night was such a night.  I did what I usually do when she performs her midnight retching ritual, I startle awake, I make sure she’s not on the bed, I listen to the spit up symphony, and I go back to bed.  In the morning, I’ll grab some paper towels and clean up the mess.  Only, this morning, I look and I look and I can’t find vomit anywhere.  Nothing on the floor, nothing under the bed, nothing on the stairs, nothing in the hallway.  Nothing.  Lindy was all innocent like, “What vomit?  I didn’t vomit.”

The way I see it, one of three things is true.  Either I dreamed the whole thing or Lindy has found a special new spot to throw up or my cat is gaslighting me.  Given that she’s a cat and therefore by definition evil, I am leaning heavily towards the gaslighting.  So if I am committed to an insane asylum murmuring about cat vomit and nothing to clean up, you know the reason.  Don’t let Lindy to to me what Charles Boyer did to Ingrid Bergman.