Lucy

Lucy is the younger of my two cats.  She’s also the dumber of my two cats.  The fatter of my two cats.  The more spastic of my two cats.  Possibly the more entertaining of my two cats.

This is the cat who sleeps draped over doors.  The cat who gets a nervous tick in her side and tries to “outrun” it.  When we had a mouse trying to move in to the apartment, she’d vigilantly watch it’s entry point…until she dozed off and fell into the wall.  She consistently stands up too quickly when sleeping under furniture and concussing what little brain she has left.  She’s a frickin’ cartoon character.

Her new trick takes the cake.  Maybe its because of all the changes happening in the apartment due to the pending move and all the potential buyers, inspectors, realtors, etc traipsing in and out of her previously mellow life.  Maybe it’s the result of one to many head cracks on the ottoman.  Maybe chemo brain is contagious.  Maybe she’s bulimic.

She’s never been one to beg .  Treats don’t speak to her and she ignores a chicken carcass almost as easily as an interloping mouse.  But she’s a thick cat and she does like her food.  For some reason though, every couple of days she seems to have this bout of paranoia where she runs to the food bowl and just starts scarfing it down.  I’ve seen my little brother more restrained in front of a pitcher of Coors Light.

Lucy barely pauses to breathe between huge gulps of savory hairball reducing cat chow.  She looks around wildly while the sound of her crunching fills the kitchen.  Even alpha-kitty Simone dares not approach the area during the binge.  Then, just as suddenly, often mid chew – she hurls right into the bowl.  Right on top of the rest of the food!  The need to vomit comes on so quickly there isn’t even time to turn her head or back away from the bowl.  She’s so excited she literally bubbles over.

I suppose I should be appreciative of her aim and my not needing to clean the floor.  I suppose it’s wrong to laugh maniacally every time it happens.  I suppose its overkill for Rocco and I to take bets on what we’ll find in the bowl when we get home from dinner.  I suppose.


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