Day 96: The Great Vomit Uprising (a.k.a. The Monday That Never Slept)

Wow. What. A. Night.

Friends, Romans, Jabbers… lend me your disinfectant.

Because I have survived the feline equivalent of a zombie apocalypse - but with more hairballs and less sense of mercy.

Let’s start with the obvious: I did not sleep.

At all.

Well, maybe there was an hour in there somewhere, sandwiched between the sounds of retching, the frantic scrabble of paws, and me muttering, “Oh God, not again,” into a roll of kitchen towel.

My poor baby Ruby - Queen of Chaos, Duchess of Drama - was violently unwell. I’m talking 15 to 17 separate vomits, if not more.

I lost count after the 10th round and started seeing phantom puddles.

Apparently, her tiny British Shorthair digestive system has declared war on her own fur. This is now the third time in one week she’s attempted to cough up her internal carpet collection.

And may I just say, she’s done so with true flair and precision targeting - two separate bedrooms, one hallway, and a scenic route across the carpet.

Casualties included:

2 full sets of bedding (RIP, freshly laundered and scented with dreams)

1 carpet that will never be the same again

Several litres of Vanish spray

My sanity

Two washing machine loads and a fog of Febreze later, the battlefield was cleared. Ruby, the tiny warlord responsible, then curled up in bed all day looking angelic - no further incidents, no remorse, just little paws tucked in like, “Who, me?”

Now, there’s a chance she’s secretly been taking my Mounjaro jab, because she’s clearly having side effects. But unless she’s grown opposable thumbs and mastered fridge climbing, I’ll let her off this time.

Meanwhile, in the land of actual work - I was meant to go to the office.

Ha!

That’s funny.

I instead declared myself a one-woman veterinary hospital and worked from home while administering moral support, cleaning up, and checking if the patient was still breathing every 7 minutes.

Work was busy as usual, though somehow the day flew by.

Probably because time bends differently when you’re running on caffeine, adrenaline, and the faint smell of cat vomit.

In the middle of this chaos, I did something productive - I booked a GP appointment for tomorrow. I need that referral for the MRI scan, because my deltoid muscle (and, let’s be honest, the whole arm) is now protesting every movement.

I can’t lift, twist, or even pour tea without feeling like I’ve been smacked by Thor’s hammer.

I’m so looking forward to three consecutive days in the office.

Not.

Because who doesn’t love a 5am alarm, a damp commute, and 45 minutes of rain-soaked existential dread?

Honestly, if enthusiasm were currency, I’d be bankrupt.

The day’s culinary highlights were… minimal.

I managed two tiny pieces of soda bread with ham and scrambled egg - at 1pm.

Not out of willpower.

Out of sheer disinterest.

Hunger?

Don’t know her.

Dinner, however, was a redemption arc: the M&S Chinese that didn’t make it into our bellies on Saturday.

Finally reheated, finally devoured.

I did briefly wait for the usual nausea and retching (me, not Ruby this time), but miraculously, it didn’t arrive.

Progress!

Then came Netflix time.

The great equaliser.

Tonight’s selection?

The Ed Gein Story.

I thought, “Ah, true crime, how bad can it be?” and then promptly regretted all my life choices.

Within minutes, I was gripping a cushion, whispering “Nope, nope, nope,” as if it were a protective charm.

There’s something deeply unsettling about a show where taxidermy and home décor meet in such… creative ways.

The man was basically a one-man horror museum.

Lampshades that should not exist, furniture that could give you nightmares, and me - sitting there with wide eyes, holding Ruby like she’s my emotional support cat in a haunted house.

But credit where it’s due - Charlie, you legend - brilliantly terrifying performance. You deserve all the awards and a long holiday somewhere very, very far from Wisconsin.

By the end, I was equal parts horrified, fascinated, and slightly concerned that I’ll never walk into a vintage shop the same way again.

So now here I am - exhausted, emotionally scarred, surrounded by drying laundry and a suspiciously quiet cat - whispering my final words of the day:

“Early night for me. Night, Jabbers.”

Because if Ruby so much as coughs again tonight… I’m moving out.

With Love,

JABatha Christie