At six next morning the house was still peaceful, except for the unmistakable sound of George upchucking. I wondered whether he was doing it because of Clyde's and Jeremy's invasion of his kingdom or my desertion of him for four days. Or just because he felt like it.
I heaved my protesting body out of bed, put on my dressing gown and found my glasses. I usually rose an hour before everyone else so I could ease into the day before life slammed me in the solar plexus with some new problem, but now George had ruined my treasured hour of quiet.
His Magnificence often ate grass as a pre-breakfast hors d'oeuvre and I knew this was a Good Thing because it cleansed his system. But why did he then gallop into the house and throw up his grass plus all the water he'd drunk in the last twelve hours onto the living room carpet?
Downstairs, I got some paper towels, trying to be thankful for the small pleasures of life, such as the prospect of breakfast. Then found cloths and the rug cleaner. By the time I'd mopped, sprayed, scrubbed and dried George's target area in front of the couch, I was feeling less than benevolent toward the feline species. George watched all this activity with bright-eyed interest, waiting to see what strange thing I'd do next.
"Why can't you be helpful like Burma?" I growled at him. Burma was a sleek, black cat who lived with my friend Barbara in Victoria and helped her with the housework by dragging paper towel and toilet rolls from the basement storage room up the stairs to the front hall. In honor of his work, Barbara had renamed him Sherpa.
George, predictably, ignored my question and demanded food. I was up, wasn't I? That meant it was breakfast time, didn't it?
I washed a cat dish, opened a can of food and placed breakfast in front of His Majesty. He devoured it with every sign of enjoyment and I was just beginning to relax and anticipate my first cup of coffee when I heard gagging.
George had upchucked his entire breakfast on the living room carpet. Not on the kitchen linoleum, which would have been easy to clean, not outside, where I could have ignored it, but on the living room carpet. In a different location from his first creation, naturally.
By the time I'd cleaned it up, George was announcing that he was ravenous and wanted something decent to eat, not that garbage I'd tried to foist on him earlier.
"You can starve to death for all I care," I told him. "That was a perfectly good breakfast and you've always liked Fluffytail's Gourmet Crab Tails and Shrimp Heads. You threw up on purpose, I know you did."
George refused to confess to anything so gauche and continued to nag. I finally gave in and opened a can of PurryPuss Venison. I knew from experience that he wouldn't eat Fluffytail's Gourmet Crab Tails and Shrimp Heads again that day because it was the awfulness of that putrid offering that made him throw up in the first place.
His Magnificence ate and I followed him around for ten minutes, prepared to heave him out the nearest window if he hunched into spewing mode. When he went outside, I relaxed with my toast and the crossword puzzle.
Ben appeared at seven. "You're up early."
"I awoke to rosy-fingered dawn painting the sky in hues of peach and gold and was moved to leap from my bed with a song in my heart and a smile on my lips."
"George threw up again, huh?"
Some time passed in healing silence, Ben engrossed with the editorial page and me with my crossword. George raced into the house, the cat flap swinging wildly in his wake, and one second later came sounds of hacking and coughing and heaving from the living room.
The Houseboy hurried in to assess the situation.
"George just threw up a hair ball and what looks like most of his breakfast," he reported.
"That's nice, dear," I said. "The rug cleaner is under the sink."