It was a dark and stormy night...
Well, it was dark, and it could have been stormy but that's neither here nor there. One evening, early in the first week of October 1992 (shortly after 10 o'clock, Central), I was parked in The Red Chair (which might've been blue then) watching The Rush Limbaugh TV Show.
As typically happened King Crab, our Most Favored Cat, had been outside and was of the considered opinion that it was high time he gained entry to his house. He indicated this by yowling his desire to the Not-a-Cats thundering about inside. My Dear Sweet Wife was most sympathetic to his now miserable plight and was only too happy to invite him in with a "Prithee Sir Cat, do come in and comfort thyself as it please thee." This happens that way to this very day.
It just so happens that "as it pleases him" involves finding me wherever I am, pouncing up onto my lap, circling enough times to ensure a proper pulverizing of my vital parts, and curling up into a ball of fur that is not very tolerant of disturbances.
So I'm parked, as I said, in the classic American Barcalounger Supine position with the Most Favored Cat, having already mangled my marbles, snoozing away. Rush was holding forth about something, and MFC began acting a bit agitated - moving about like maybe my lap wasn't its customary comfortable self. Rush comes back from a commercial and sets up a segment about Shinehead O'Connor's recent appearance on Saturday Night Live. MFC has now recommenced the testes trampling ritual.
Limbaugh rolls the video clip of Shinehead on SNL. MFC stops his turning and is now standing in my lap giving me a very odd look. In her unending quest for attention, Shinehead concludes her musical (their words, not mine) number by holding up and tearing apart a picture of Pope John Paul II. MFC, obviously revulsed by such an arrogant display of disrespect for the Pope, morphs immediately into...
dun dun dun DAAAAAH!
...and begins to vomit on me.
Me: (realizing I'm pinned under this barfing cat) HONEYQUICKOPENTHEDOOR!
DSW: (falling helpfully on the floor) WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
Me: (realizing my Dear Sweet Wife has lapsed into paroxysms of loving laughter and is not capable of helping me in the Least Bit) GETTHISCATOFFAME!
Chunderpuss: URP! URP! URP!
DSW: (still laughing as helpfully as humanly possible) WAHAHAHAHAHA! GROSS! WAHAHAHA!
schmedlets: (grateful for any excuse to make noise after the GO TO SLEEP edict has been pronounced) What's going on?
Me: (realizing now I REALLY can't get up or I'll dump cat puke all over everything) NOTHING! BE QUIET! HONEY GET ME A TOWEL!
Chunderpuss: (launching these darkish-bluish blobs) UUUUURRRRRP!
Me: (realizing these darkish-bluish blobs look like...) RAT FŒTUSES! THIS DAMN CAT'S PUKING RAT FŒTUSES ON MEEEEEEE!
DSW: (now laughing harder than may be humanly possible) GROOOOOOOOSSSSSSSS! WAHAHAHAHAHA!
Shinehead: (still on TV) Blah blah blah blah (Look at how Edgy I am! Don't you all wish you were as Edgy as I?)
Chunderpuss: (empty) Meow! (I'm outta here!)
FINALLY, my DSW staggers to her feet and allows Chunderpuss to bound off into the night to fight the forces of evil. Then she finds a towel and LEAVES ME to soothe the anxieties of the schmedlets as only a mother can. The mess was confined to me. The chair and carpet (and especially the fur of Chunderpuss) was unsoiled thanks to my heroic sacrifice.
I don't know what it is about rat fœtuses that don't agree with MFC's digestive system, but he didn't acknowledge the link between wolfing down pregnant rats (nearly whole, apparently) and the emetic results. For several years after that, we'd find these revolting regurgitated rodent remnants on the patio (or in a newly brown patch in the lawn). Now that he's living only on Social Security and has lost much of his vip, vim and vigor (not to mention a few teeth), he doesn't seem to fool with rats much.
I just hope he hasn't passed the Sacred Cowl of Chunderpuss to Thunderfoot or Curious Georgette.