The Wet Spot

You live with someone for seven years and you think you know them. But you don't. Not even if they have a simple, walnut-sized brain.

My primary cat, Katya, loves ice. I discovered this a few weeks ago when I was having a drink with ice in it and the phone rang. I got up to answer the phone, and when I came back, her nose was buried deep in the glass, her tongue flicking all over my ice.



She loves the ice so much that I've taken to putting ice cubes in her water bowl, which induces her to drink more. She needs to drink more because her kidneys are getting bad, and apparently water helps that. So it always pleases me to see her drinking. Rebecca and I used to call this "exercising her will to live." And if ice cubes can facilitate that, then I'm happy to use them.

When I had mean evil strangers (my mom and her husband) stay in the apartment for three days last weekend, Katya mostly hid under the bed and didn't do very much exercising of her will to live. So when they left on Monday, she finally came out from hiding and gorged on ice-chilled water.

Then she horked all of it back up, in four different spots, on the carpet. It got to the point that I was following her around with a rag, wiping up the cat puke as quickly as she produced it. At least it was mostly water, which made it clear or odorless. She had also left a "horkage event" on top of the bed spread, which I soaked up as best as I could.

When I pulled back the sheets to go to bed that night, I noticed that the watery vomit had soaked all the way through the bed spread to the sheets below. It was a relatively small wet spot, on the other side of the bed, so I was able to avoid it. But still, this is not the kind of "wet spot" that a swingin' bachelor expects to find in his bed.