Puking Peril on the Way to Parensol

The first day of our vacation, Olivier and I were riding in the stuffed rental car with our yowling cat in the backseat on our way to Parensol in central France to spend the weekend with Olivier’s parents.

Cat was safely snuggled in her little traveling bag. About 30 minutes into the trip, we were on the Périphérique heading away from Paris when she began her signature “I’m about to blow chunks” wail. No hot, meaty smell wafted from behind, so we assumed that all was well. That was fucking stupid.

We stopped a couple of hours later at a rest stop to eat. I held Cat’s bag in my lap while trying to feed her bites of turkey through a wee hole near her head. She didn’t seem to interested. We walked to the building to grab some coffee and have a pee, taking turns holding Cat’s bag as we went inside.

When I came outside, Olivier announced that he had discovered a nice little pile of vomit on her cushion and that the puke had saturated her super, most extra-special, favorite, fuzzy toy. Wonderful. Well, Cat didn’t seem too happy, either.

Olivier, naturally did the heroic thing and ran back inside to fetch something to sop up the puke with. With a flash, he returned with a fistful of crumpled convenience store ass-wipe. The only problem was… well, have you ever tried cleaning a fuzzy cat toy with a skinny, crumpled wad of toilet paper?

I looked around for some grass to wipe it in. Big problem: no lawn whatsoever. I knelt down and began tossing and wiping, batting and slapping the mangled furry mouse on the pavement. Olivier was hysterical with laughter and all of the passersby were staring.

I don’t know why. You’d think it was the first time that they had seen a grown woman smacking a cat toy around on the ground with her paw.

Weirdos. They should get out more.