The Great Barf Scandal of Morninglight

It started like any other day:

The sun was shining, birds were chirping, and I—Valentina, Queen of the Desert Kingdom—was absolutely starving.

So, I did what any sophisticated feline would do:

I demolished my breakfast.

Did I chew? No.

Did I pace myself? Also no.

Did I inhale it like a Dyson vacuum on espresso?

You bet your litter box I did.

And wouldn’t you know it… eight minutes later, karma knocked.

Loudly.

There I was, elegantly sleeping on the bed, tucked like a flaky croissant between the top sheet and the bottom sheet. Daddy was snoring beside me like a dying walrus in a thunderstorm when it hit:

The Rumble.

You know the one. The “uh-oh” tummy quake that says:

“This is not a drill.”

I tried to move. I really did.

But I was swaddled like a purrito, stuck in a cotton coffin of my own making.

And then…

HUURGGHHH—BLLAAAAGHHH.

Breakfast made its dramatic comeback.

Center stage. Front row. All its chunky, half-digested glory.

Right there on the sheets.

A Jackson Pollock made of kibble and regret.

Daddy?

Still asleep. Mouth open. Possibly inhaling the essence of barf.

So, I do what any innocent party would do:

MEOW.

“Excuse me, sir. There’s been an incident.”

Nothing.

I try again.

MEEEOWWWWW.

Still nothing.

Panic.

Hide.

Under the bed. Stat.

Enter: Mommy.

She walks in, sees the scene of destruction, and lets out the classic:

“VALENTINA, NOOOOOO!”

She pokes Daddy and whispers, “Honey… don’t freak out. Valentina got sick.”

Daddy opens one eye. Looks at her. Looks at the barf.

Sits up like Dracula rising from his crypt.

“WHAT. THE. F**K.”

Then he yells “Blackie!”

(Rude. We’ve talked about this.)

He dramatically stumbles to the living room like a Shakespearean ghost and flops on the couch to sulk.

I cautiously emerge from under the bed to monitor cleanup operations.

Mommy puts on rubber gloves like she’s entering a crime scene, grabs a roll of paper towels, and mutters “Valentinaaaa…” in that long, suffering tone she reserves for moments like this.

She scoops my artistic masterpiece into a trash bag, then hauls the sheets, pillowcases, and maybe some of Daddy’s dignity straight into the washing machine.

“This better come out,” she says.

Yeah, well… you try digesting a full breakfast in twelve seconds, lady.

Then, as if nothing ever happened, she gets dressed for Tai Chi—her latest thing. Mommy is always trying something new. Yesterday it was lavender oil. Before that, cold plunges. Before that, goat yoga. (Don’t ask.)

She kisses me on the head.

“Be good, Valentina. Daddy’s still trying to sleep.”

Then… she LEAVES.

WITHOUT. MAKING. THE. BED.

Excuse me??

Where am I supposed to sleep? On the raw mattress like some kind of alley cat?

This is a five-star household and I am the purring princess of this palace.

So I retreat to the only place with any dignity left: Mommy’s yoga mat.

Soft. Scented like lavender and broken dreams.

I curl up, let out a long, theatrical sigh, and nap like nothing ever happened.

The moral of the story?

• Chew your food.

• Blame Daddy.

• Never, ever clean up your own barf.

—The End.