At “you’ve-got-to-be kidding-me” o’clock a.m., I was awakened by the wheezy cough of my beloved cat. She often just clears her throat but this time she was really trying to work something out of her system. I flailed my leg around the bed to be sure she was on the wood floor, which is way easier to clean up than my bedding. I thought about getting up right then to take care of it, but my bed held me hostage.
When my alarm went off at the civilized hour of 7:00 a.m., I fumbled for my glasses and sat up to scan the floor before stepping out of bed. Stepping in cold cat puke first thing in the morning will make the rest of your day better by comparison, but I’d already learned that lesson a few months ago.
I saw nothing. I turned on my light and kept looking. Nada. Gingerly, I got up and looked to see if she had made her deposit under my bed. Zilch.
I could have sworn the sound came from my bedroom, but maybe she was in the bathroom. Nope, nothing there either.
Maybe I dreamed the entire thing. I cannot find any evidence of her tummy upset.
Now I’m paranoid that my bare foot will find it at some inopportune moment. I am still waiting to find that elusive hard boiled Easter egg my ex or I hid about 10 years ago.
Perhaps something similar inspired Frank Herbert to say, “The mystery of life isn’t a problem to solve, but a reality to experience.”