Friday, July 15, 2011

Don't you WANT to be famous?

In the absense of any additional submissions from you lovely people for this week's "Fun Food Stories" writing prompt, I thought I'd share one of my own.  Hope y'all don't mind.  You need something to read, don't you?

Actually, it isn't so much about food, as it is about eating.  It took place last September and my fat cat Patches was apparently hungry. 

If you have any old or new Fun Food posts, email us!  Send us a link from your archives! Or from yesterday! Whatever!  It only takes a minute and the fame and fortune that will result is TOTALLY worth it.  Probably.

- Marianna Annadanna


Crunch, crunch, crunch

Hubby and I were awakened out of a blissful sleep at 5:00 this morning. We could hear Patches making loud crying noises.

Nothing too out of the ordinary, really. She often makes that angry drowning cat sound when she's about to throw up. (She sometimes inhales her food too quickly and then runs away to throw up her un-chewed pellets. Don't worry... she eats them right back up again.)

Anyway, her sounds melded into my dream until my subconscious was trying to rescue a cat from the back of some random kitchen cabinet. Hubby pulled me out of my half-dream when he said "sounds like Patchy's throwing up." "Mm hmm" I answered, trying to ignore it.

But he was awake, and when Hubby wakes up, he has to go to the bathroom - he can't just go back to sleep... that would be silly. So he climbed out of bed, walked by Patches at the top of the stairs ("You ok, Patchy?") and went into his bathroom.

I was trying to go back to sleep, but I could hear something else.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

I thought, hmm, she must be eating regurgitated pellets. But then it started to sink in.

Hubby came out of the bathroom and I mumbled "She's crunching on something."

He went back to the bathroom to turn on the light , and then back to look at the cat.

"It's a mouse!" he confirmed.

Yep. I friggin KNEW it. I knew it. "I knew it!"

That's why I didn't get up and check for myself. I had a sneaking suspicion. And in our house, all mouse-related hi-jinks are Hubby's department. I want nothing to do with them.

When I finally sat up to look at Patch, Hubby was slouched over, arms out-stretched, in his 15-year-old and barely-there (but apparently very comfortable) "sleeping underwear", chasing our fat cat down the stairs.

Once he retrieved Patches it was apparent that she had very effectively eaten most of the mouse's face. Crunch, crunch, crunch.

"Good job Patchy" he said. Congratulating her on her catch. Nice.

"Ew! Wash her!" I said.  Yes, I wanted him to wash all the mouse guts out of her mouth. Not an unreasonable request, I don't think.

"Are you kidding me?!"

"No, she's probably got bones and blood and diseases all over her!"

"Oh my God..."

"Just do it!"

So Hubby went and got one of his facecloths and held down a very squirmy and unhappy Patches while he scrubbed her face.

This morning we weren't sure whether to praise or punish her. In any case, her new nickname is Mouse Mouth. Yummy.