Hiccups

A cat named Spot, a hairball, a veterinary visit, and trouble with the law. Ordinary day.

Hiccups, Hairballs, and High-Speed Hysterics

          Let me set the scene: My name is Taffy, and I own a Sphynx cat named Spot. For those of you who don't speak Cat Fancy, which means I own a hairless, wrinkly, yet inexplicably arrogant feline who looks like a wet toddler rat but costs $2,000.00 a year in skincare.

          Spot's hiccups started at breakfast. Burps? Fine. Hiccups? Charming. But when they persisted for three hours and culminated in her regurgitating a hairball the size of a garden gnome onto my limited-edition Star Wars rug, I realized this was no ordinary feline malfunction.

          "Okay, Spot," I said, scooping her into a towel like a sneaky burrito. "Time to visit Dr. Paws. This is why we can't have pleasant things."

          The vet's office was a disaster in waiting. Spot, who'd never met a white coat she didn't want to shed on, thrashed like a caffeinated eel as I laid her on the exam table. Dr. Paws, a woman whose love for cats was rivaled only by her fear of liability, donned double gloves and a hazmat-level smock.

         "So, what's the issue?" she asked, eyeing Spot's nakedness.

         "Hiccups... and then this." I gestured to the hairball in a Ziploc bag.

          Dr. Paws stared. "A hairball?"

          "Yes. From a Sphynx."

          She held the bag at arm's length. "That's... impossible."

          "Great. So now we're in The Twilight Zone."

          Spot, eavesdropping, sneezed. Dr. Paws yelped and nearly fell into a chart labeled "Feline Dermatology: Don't Touch." After a series of questionable diagnostic maneuvers (including a stethoscope test while Spot attempted to climb her stethoscope cord like a jungle gym), Dr. Paws concluded, "She's fine. Probably ate something weird. Or you did. Ever tried chewing gum? Cats hate that."

          Turns out, Spot's "hiccups" were just her weird way of saying, "Surprise! I'm a magical pooping parlor trick!" We left $300 poorer and 30% more confused.

          The real chaos began on the way home.

          I'd only just convinced Spot to stop treating my steering wheel as a scratching post when she leapt onto the dashboard, yowling at a squirrel conducting a mock trial of my windshield. I swerved. A police car materialized like a villain in a low-budget movie.

          "Crap, crap, crap," I muttered.

          The officer, a no-nonsense woman with a buzzcut and a glare that could curdle milk, approached my window. "License and registration," she barked.

          I handed over the documents. She glanced at me, then at Spot, who was now sunbathing on my lap like a human-sized, warm, unrepentant gremlin.

          The officer's eyes widened. "Is that a cat?"

          "Yes. His name is Spot. He's... hairless."

          "Hairless?!" She inhaled sharply. "Is it allergen-free?!"

          "Well, it's Sphynx, so--"

          She slammed her fist on my roof. "Get. That. Demon out of my car!"

          Wait, her car? Oh. Right. She was still outside.

          But then came a sound like a popcorn machine caught in a tornado. The officer's face contorted. "I--I need an antihistamine. Now." She fumbled for an inhaler, sneezing once, twice, then a third time that launched her into the trunk of my car.

          "Ma'am! Are you okay?!"

         "I'm fine, she snarled, which immediately turned into "ACHOO! AACK!" Spot, ever the opportunist, climbed onto her shoulder and began licking her cheek.

          "H-hey! Don't lick! ACHOO!" The officer slid down the trunk, now half-inside my car, as I frantically tried to juggle her, Spot, and the steering wheel.

          Finally, I grabbed a blanket from the backseat, bundled Spot in it, and tossed her into the passenger seat. "There! Happy?!"

          The officer glared, still sniffling. "This is why we can't have pleasant things. I had one job." She peeled herself out of my car, administering a Benadryl like it was a holy relic, and waved me off.

          Back home, Spot curled up on the rug,
the one with the hairball, and fell asleep mid-purr. I sat across from her, staring at the damage.

          "Well," I said, "at least you didn't throw up on the Ewok Throw Pillow this time."

          She looked at me, unrepentant, and sneezed.

          I'm fairly sure that was a "thank you."

Word Count: 679