I woke this morning to a beautiful serenade. I'd had a horrible night of tossing and turning, and had finally fallen into deep, restorative sleep, when in the pre-dawn light, I heard the haunting, halting melody of a cat vomiting on the corner of my bed. Alfred has been whispering to us from the shadows like Cyrano de Bergerac, if Cyrano had been trying to convince Christian to woo Roxane by way of dramatic, romantic displays of regurgitation. This morning's soliloquy was the final act. I bundled up Dr Alfred P Love, and drove him to the vet, against his wishes. The good news was that he doesn't appear to have any structural defect to worry about, but he may have developed an intolerance for the food he was raised on. The new doctor at our favorite clinic has the kind of deep understanding of cat behavior that both the man and I will need to develop if we are ever going to be a modern Hart-to-Hart cat therapist and crime fighting duo. She tells me that we have to stop expecting the cats to comply with our social-animal family structure, and to spread food out in different feeding stations around the house. She claims this will reduce stress. Sure, for them. Rabbit will no longer have any need whatsoever to toddle her chubby white self downstairs if food, water, toilet, and bed are all located in the master suite. But remembering to keep food in a thin layer in multiple locations will increase my stress. I liked having all food activities regulated by the kitchen. But I will do what it takes to make the cats happy and healthy (the very definition of a crazy cat lady -- putting their needs above my own) and I will report later whether it diffuses some of the tension around here. If it makes that foreign girl calm down a little bit, it will be worth it.
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