This field…

This field of work makes me, amongst other things, have no boundaries when it comes to all things gross.  When people throw around the acronym “TMI”… I’m like… “What’s that?”  Because, really, nothing is TMI for me.  I’m in the business of inquiring about that much information.  When was your last bowel movement? What was its consistency? What color is that discharge? Does it smell bad?  Do you practice protected sex?

So it is no big surprise that this also applies to my personal life.  Things that I’m quite certain should gross me out…don’t.  (with the exception of bathtub drain hairballs…I’d rather rip out my fingernails one by one with a rusty pair of pliers and then dip my hands in lemon juice and battery acid than snake the drain after a month of my showers)

Case in point this morning.  We feed our cat twice a day.  And he acts like we’re starving him.  There’s no real need for an alarm clock, as he is already tromping all over the bed demanding to be fed by 0530am.  And I have yet to hear him chew any of his kibble.  I’m certain that if I dissected him soon after a meal that I’d be able to package up his stomach contents and sell it at the farmer’s market as organic soft kibble.  And make a fortune.

So this morning as I’m feeding him I realize we’re running low on cat food.  Which means a trip to Costo on Sunday which I hate.  I’d rather… well, you get the point.  So he inhales it in a very ungentlemanly pace and manner.  And then as I’m getting dressed I hear the sound that every cat owner knows.  I don’t even know how to spell it.  “Whomp, whomp, whomp ….eeeccchhhh”  I just hope he’s not on the area rug.  A whole house full of wood floors and he manages to get it on the area rugs about 96% of the time.

So there it is, right next to his feed dish.  A little pile of freshly regurgitated cat kibble.  Right next to his feed dish.  And we’re running low on cat food.  Waste not want not, right?  So I scoop it up in a paper towel and empty it right back into his dish and go on about my morning.  And he ate it.  And he’s been sitting on the easy chair grooming himself ever since.  Maybe its better the second time around. And he almost could have enjoyed my husband’s breakfast the second time around too. From now on I’ll make sure he’s not in the room when I recycle the contents of the cat’s stomach.