Sick Kitty, Hoary Tales, No Shows, and Bedroom V.0.9

Sit back, weary traveler, and listen to the latest in the Post Work Fun 231 lecture series, “How to Drive Yourself Crazy Each Night After Leaving Work.”

I get home from work. Toby’s been [I think] frankly crapping all over Todd’s bedroom. I figure, “I give him a day to do this, then I’ll clean up after him.” Sitting at my computer, I hear him hack–and see him standing over a pile of bile.

At the time, I was on ICQ with Amy, and since she’s a kittymommy and I’m just a would-be kittydaddy, I freak. “Ames, tell me what the hell’s wrong with our cat!”–or words to that effect. Amy reassured me–he’s probably pissed as hell and nervous to boot. I think about Toby’s summer:

1. Dragged cross-country by Todd from his happy home in California to Alabama. Multiple, very-late plane flights.

2. Dragged cross-state by Todd the next day down to Demopolis.

3. Stuck in a trailer with sometimes-good, sometimes-bad air conditioning in the “Asshole of Alabama”, as Todd calls it, with only Todd for company.

4. Randomly visited by strangers who will not leave him alone. Among the cabal is yours truly, to whom Toby actually takes a shine.

5. Dragged cross-state by Todd on Friday to Club Todder.

6. Randomly visited by strangers who will not leave him alone. Of course, he was being an uber-catslut.

7. Left by Todd, who’s in Chile right now, with yours truly [the would-be kittydaddy] and Blake, who has the healthy male dislike for things feline.

Poor Toblerone has had a shitty summer. I think I’d puke a few times, too.

A phone call comes in: it’s Jason Atkinson from alt.books.tom-clancy. The younger of the Junkyard Dogs, he’s in town for the night. Plans are made to meet him at El Camino Real in SE Huntsvegas. I leave Blake a message: “Toby’s not crapping everywhere, he’s puking everywhere. I’ll get carpet cleaner on my way home.”

Jason and I [and later Local Lurker Extraordinaire Mike Stim] meet and eat dinner. I am regaled with tales of the Cadet Corps at Virginia Tech. Mike and I regale him with tales of engineering to come. I sense fear in him. Good. Jason regales us with tales of “the book”, the copy of [damnifIremember, but I think Hunt for Red October] that’s passing ’round the world to various a.b.t-c regulars, and why the Feds have had their hands on it at least twice. [That is all I am saying on the subject.]

I run off to SGA, expecting to have a meeting. The bums no-show me.

I come home; Blake is dead to the world, Lauren has cleaned Toby up. Toby is dehydrated [you would be, too, if you’d puked all damn day]. He curls up in my closet. I chase him out, knowing that he’ll stay there if I let him, and that it’s nowhere near his water, food, or litter box. After I leave him alone for a few, I peer into Todd’s bathroom–he’s finally at the water dish. I smile, coo at him a minute, and walk off. His good instincts will kick in, and if they don’t, Lauren’s resolved to take him to the vet tomorrow.

I dink around with the cable setup in my room. I figure out finally how to rearrange the bedroom–dueling computers across the Pine Expanse of Doom. This makes no sense to you now, Dear Reader, but it will when I have the new computer together and my bloody Webcam back active.

So now I ponder sleep, hoping that Toby will hydrate himself and stop ralphing all over the carpet, which I have yet to clean; that Jason will get himself and his mother home to Virginia safely; that SGA people will feel guilty that I spent 45 minutes in the SGA office and wasted 90 minutes of my night [counting travel time] on them; and that I’ll wake up at a decent hour so I can get started on Bedroom V.0.9. The 1.0 release will come when I get the TV stand installed; that should happen tomorrow night.