Cleanup in Aisle Hagarty

By Jim Hagarty
2012

The mind of a cat, assuming there is such a thing, is a very curious apparatus, apparently.

Today was such a beautiful day I let Mario and Luigi out in the backyard to run around after lunch. I watched them from the kitchen window as I washed some dishes and I smiled at how much they seemed to be enjoying the delights of an early spring.

Then I saw both of them eating grass. Hmmm. This is what cats do when they need to get rid of fur and other crap inside them but can’t get it out any other way. They eat lawngrass and for some reason, this makes them hurl. Presto, changeo, happy cats. Bad stuff gone.

I was thinking about the wonders of all this as I washed a cup when I suddenly remembered the other part of this equation, at least the way it plays out at our place. For a reason I cannot explain, the cats have designated our garage as their own personal vomitorium. They will drag themselves on their little cat knuckles and knees across the yard to make sure they make it inside the garage door before they hurl.

I remembered this little wonderful fact of life as I stood at the sink and heard the telltale pre-hurl sounds every cat makes. They arch their back, and move their head as though possessed by a demon. They look like they are in need of an exorcism and not just a stomach purge.

Now, our garage floor is all concrete which makes cleaning up this lovely mess at least bearable. Soak the stuff in vinegar, take some paper towels, etc. But this is where it gets even freakier. We have one small carpet out there at the base of the steps which we use to keep our feet warm as we pull on our boots in winter. Apparently, in this game of Curling (my name for Cat Hurling), there are extra points for the darling that can spew his innards on that little woven carpet from which puke is very hard to extract.

So, to recap, our lot comprises 7,854 square feet. To a cat that stands eight inches high, it must seem as though we own the Ponderosa. Acres of grass to chew. But, only one little place to toss the old cookies.

If it sounds as though I am complaining, don’t get me wrong: I meant to make it sound as though I am complaining.

If I haven’t made myself clear, I hate cleaning up cat barf!

Love the sinner, hate the sin!

Love the cat, hate the barf!

Simple.

Author: Jim Hagarty

I am a 65-year-old retired journalist, busy recovering from a lifelong career as an unretired journalist. This year marks a half century of my scratching out little fables about life. My interests include genealogy, humour and music. I live in a little blue shack in Canada and spend most of my time trying to stay out of trouble. I am not that good at it. I also spent years teaching journalism. Poor state of journalism today: My fault. I have a family I don’t deserve, a dog that adores me, and two cars the junk yard refuses to accept. My prized possessions include my old guitar and a razor my Dad gave me when I was 14 and which I still use when I bother to shave. Oh, and my great-great-grandfather’s blackthorn stick he brought from Ireland in the 1850s. I have only one opinion but it is a good one: People take too many showers.

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