What Kevin doesn't know is that he is going back to the hated vet tomorrow morning, to be abandoned by his uncaring owner (or Personal Shopper as a current cat food ad has it) for the day, so that the vet can take serial blood pressure readings. That's what she says, anyway. I suspect she's really hoping for another lagoon-of-wee event that she can video and post on YouTube.
And the third strike happened - no one poo-ed, but Kevin overdid his dinner and decided to bring it back up. Not using his ten-feet-projectile technique, thankfully, and so, with lightning reflexes, I managed to get the dog's beanbag cushion under him (I'm getting to be a dab hand at positioning things at either end of this cat today!) as it's easier to clean up than from a carpet. What a day; despite the jokes and faux hard-heartedness, it is quite a harrowing time, and I intend to have an early night. With earplugs in, so that any sounds of retching, coughing, splashing, crying, and worse will be minimised. I shall just watch my step carefully if I have to get up in the night. Gentle reader, I promise not to mention bodily functions any more this week.
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