The Spew-Shoe.

I love cats.
But are they really worth it all?
Mine pukes in my shoes all the time.
It’s not funny. At any given time I will have about three or four pairs of shoes at the front door. Jack [my purebreed Ragdoll], he’s filled most of them at one time or the other with nice waaaaaaaaarm cat-vom! Sometimes in them, but always on them. His aim and consistency is what is most remarkable. Feline accuracy. He rarely misses.
Whatever it is that comes out of him looks like a wad of Kleenex soaked in oatmeal. These projectiles I don’t mind so much, they are easier to clean up. But it’s the other stuff, the half-digested soupy collage of watery spewage... well, I’ve thrown away many a shoe, let me tell you. I purposely only throw away the one shoe... leaving the other one there, so that he can hack into it all he wants.
But he’s not into this!
He wants a fresh pair.
Invariably, he blows chunks into the shoe next to the designated Spew-Shoe!
I just don’t get it. And what amazes me is the rationale that is obviously going into this.... from the cat’s perspective I mean. Here is an apartment with all kinds of square footage. Couches. Big bed with loads of under-bed vomit potential. Walk-in closet with an open doorway. Perfect puking conditions, pretty much wall-to-wall. Half the time, the guy who pays the rent isn’t even here. Jack is pretty much free to vomit anywhere he wants, and who’s the wiser? It’s Hairball Heaven!
He looks this scenario over. Walks over to my shoes and says to himself “The next time I feel the old pipes backing up again... oh yeah!... I am going to so totally throw up right into this thing here with the laces and the...” and I can already hear it. The convulsions. Jack’s in the zone. He’s gonna hurl. And it’s usually a morning thing. I’m brushing my teeth and I hear this apocalyptic gagging... so I run, Colgate froth flying. All I can see is the top of Jack’s head, because the rest of his face is rammed into my shoe. All I want to do is pretty much point him anywhere else, the poor guy. I twirl him around. Six demons are scraping his insides out with a muddy fencepost. He is levitating, I swear. And whatever the hell is actually happening to him, you would not be surprised to see his intestines come shooting out of his ears. With a horrendous shplorking sound and a final horrified shudder he is delivered of his burden. It’s out. The mess is out.
Oh dear God it’s out, and I caught him in time. This is ruining the parquet flooring here in this spot.
Both of us are exhausted.
Toothpaste ooze mingles with the exorcised carnage.
I pat him on the head. “Zhatzagudboy” I say with the toothbrush still lodged in my face, and Jack eeks out a plaintive meow. I’ll clean the mess in a minute.
I go back to the sink and as I am rinsing I hear a final sort of.... junior-shplork.... an after-shplork, or as the French would say.... l’apres-shplork.
I peer around the corner of the wall.
And Jack is looking up at me with those blue eyes of his and he is somehow saying with them [in the cutest way possible given the circumstances]... “Ummm, there was a little bit more left and so I thought maybe I’d just throw it up into this thing here with the laces and... is that OK, Dad?”
He’s doing everything but pointing with his paw!
Cat-vom slithers down the tongue of my good shoe. What’s a Dad to do?