things that go poot in the night

I don’t know when I’ll be able to update tomorrow, or if. I’ll be on the road for most of the morning, and then, you know, family and stuff. I’ll see what I can do.

Last night Cal was making an insane amount of noise running around and yelling and terrorizing Taylor. I got up to stop him and he bit my hand. I was mad and got back into bed and told Eric to handle his cat. In the dark I heard Eric get up and walk over to Cal. Then I heard “PffffFFFIIIIIEEEEEEEEIIIEIEIEEEE!”

“You alright?””Yeah.”

“What the hell was that?”

“Cal. He farted.”

“That was a FART?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh my God, are you okay?”

“I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“Were you holding him?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You just picked him up and he farted all over you?”

“Please.”

“Oh, man. I’m sorry.”

“Shh.”

“Well, at least he’s quiet now. You’ve taken the wind out of his sails.”

“Ho-ho!”

“Did it get all over you?”

“Pam!”

“I’m sorry. It just, it sounded like you were kissing him. I can’t believe that was his butt.”

“Good night.”

“Night, stinky.”

“You know, I just want you to love the cat. Why can’t you love the cat? I love the cat.”

“I know you do.”

“Why can’t you?”

“I do love the cat, sweetie, but he’s all mean.”

“He’s like, my favorite thing in the world.”

“That makes your cat and your car your favorite things in the world.”

“I mean, you. I meant you.”

“Merry Christmas.”

“I just–”

“No, you know what? If I was chewing on you and running around beating up Trejo and then I just let a big one rip every time you picked me up do you know what would happen? You’d break up with me.”

“What do you have against my boy Trejo?”

“I HAVE NOTHING AGAINST HIM! I’m making a point. Trejo is your buddy. Taylor is my buddy. Your ‘favorite thing’ is a big meany to me and my cat and then he just blows wind all over you and instead of getting grossed out you climb back into bed taking kitty poo wind inside the sheets like I’m supposed to find the whole thing terribly romantic.”

“I think you need a buddy.”

“I think…you…damn, that cat really farted all over you, huh?”

“I’m not talking about it.”

He’s getting his, though, as in about an hour he’s leaving work to do, like, ALL of his Christmas shopping. I can’t believe he waited so long. He swears the whole thing is a perfectly oiled machine and that he’ll be home by four-thirty and ready for his nap, a bag of gifts under each arm.

We’ll see.

I’m gonna go to the vet’s and pick up some anti-gas food. Any suggestions?

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