There I was, sipping my morning coffee and enjoying a peaceful scroll through cat memes, when I saw it—a suspiciously damp spot on the carpet, no larger than a bottle cap. It shimmered in the morning light like a crime scene from a CSI: Kitten edition. I looked around. Fluffy the Tiny Menace sat nearby, blinking innocently, clearly proud of her contribution to modern art.
Have you ever seen cat vomit so small it qualifies as a microaggression? I had to get a magnifying glass to confirm it wasn’t just a particularly enthusiastic sneeze. But no. There it was. A pea-sized pellet of digested kibble and shame, artfully delivered to the exact center of my new rug. A rug, mind you, she ignored completely until it became a designated barf canvas.
Why do cats always throw up with the precision of an interior designer? Hardwood floor? Nah. Lino? Too easy. How about the one square foot of Persian wool that costs more than my Wi-Fi bill? Perfect. It’s like she read Better Homes and Garden Puking Spots monthly.
I tried cleaning it, but Fluffy supervised like a tiny, furry Gordon Ramsay. “You’re doing it wrong, Karen. You missed a chunk.” Honestly, I think she’s planning to Yelp-review my cleaning skills. “1 star. Human lacks proper enzymatic cleaner. Also, rude.”
I guess when you own a mini cat, you get mini hairballs, mini purrs, and mini moments of projectile betrayal. They say pets bring joy into your life. Technically true—if by “joy” you mean “a weirdly adorable reason to Google ‘how to get bile out of Berber carpet.’”
