A Story of Mischief

And the moments that create meaning

Basil, between pouf and rug, in bright sun, with his tongue out

Before owning cats I had no idea how frequently they vomit. From anxiety, like when we had a house fire, or simply when they’ve licked too much hair from their own furry bodies. It’s not frequent enough to be a serious hassle, but enough to cause a noticeable disturbance in the way of things.

One morning, Henry vomited into my biking shoes. He was greedy. He’d eaten too quickly, scarfing down his breakfast meat mash, and rushed directly for the right shoe of the pair I kept by the stationary bike. He puked in it. His aim was impeccable. Not a drop spilled. I no longer own those shoes.

Nobody likes the vomit. Or the vomit stories. Disposing of a pair of shoes is worth it, though, when the cats are lazing in the sun, tongues out and bellies up. It’s worth it because they make it clear how much they appreciate having a home.

Henry was scolded for nibbling a toxic plant. The plant is no longer with us.

Basil, as above, resting in the sun

Keep and eye on your inboxes! More photos of Henry and Basil will be coming next week. This post was written entirely by Tys. Lily knew all about cat vomit.

— Tys & Lily